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PAUL THE MINSTREL 

AND OTHER STORIES 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 

AND OTHER STORIES 

Reprinted from The Hill of Trouble 
and The Isles of Sunset 



BY 



ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON 

FELLOW OF MAGDALENE COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE 



NEW YORK 

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
1912 






^W^^T^ 



/ 



r (Ideiss*'* 



4 

«0 



" / mean by a picture a beautiful^ romantic dream 
of something that never ivas^ never nvlll he — In a 
light better than any light that ever shone — In a 
land no one can define or remember, only desire — 
and the forms divinely beautiful — and then I ivake 
up ivlth the luahlng of Brynhlld,^^ 

Sir E. Burne-Jones 



PREFACE 



These stories were all written at a very happy 
time of my life, and they were first published when 
I was a master at Eton with a boarding-house. 
A house-master is not always a happy man. It 
is an anxious business at best. Boys are very 
unaccountable creatures, and the years between 
boyhood and adolescence are apt to represent an 
irresponsible mood. From the quiet childhood at 
home the boys have passed to what is now, most 
happily, in the majority of cases, a carefully guarded 
and sheltered atmosphere — the private school. My 
own private school was of the old-fashioned type, 
with a very independent tone of tradition ; but 
nowadays private schools are smaller and much 
more domesticated. The boys live hke little 
brothers in the company of active and kindly young 
masters ; and then the}^ are plunged into the rougher 
currents of public schools, with their strange and 
in miany w^ays barbarous code of ethics, their strong 
and penetrating traditions. Here the boys, who 
have hitherto had little temptation to be anything 
but obedient, have to learn to govern themselves, 
and to do so among conventions which hardly re- 
present the conventions of the world, and where 
the public opinion is curiously unaffected either by 



viii PREFACE 

parental desires, or by the wishes, expressed or un- 
expressed, of the masters. A house-master is often 
in the position of seeing a new set of boys come into 
power in his house whom he may distrust ; but 
the sense of honour among the boys is so strong 
that he is often the last person to hear of practices 
and principles prevailing in liis house of which he 
may wholly disapprove. He may even find that 
many of the individual boys in his house disapprove 
of them too, and yet be unable to alter a tone im- 
pressed on the place by a few boys of forcible, if 
even sometimes unsatisfactory, character. But at 
the time at which these stories were written the 
tone of my own house was sound, sensible, and 
friendly ; and I had the happiness of living in 
an atmosphere which I knew to be wholesome, 
manly, and pure. I used to tell or read stories on 
Sunday evenings to any boys who cared to come 
to listen ; and I remember with delight those hours 
when perhaps twenty boys would come and sit 
all about mj/ study, filling every chair and sofa 
and overflowing on to the floor, to listen to long, 
vague stories of adventure, with at all events an 
appearance of interest and excitement. 

One wanted to do the best for the boys, to put 
fine ideas, if one could, into their heads and hearts. 
But direct moral exhortation to growing boys, feel- 
ing the life of the world quickening in their veins, 
and with vague old instincts of love and war rising 
uninterpreted in their thoughts, is apt to be a fruit- 
less thing enough. It is not that they do not Hsten ; 
but they simply do not understand the need of 
caution and control, nor do they see the unguarded 



PREFACE ix 

posterns by which evil things sHp smiHng into the 
fortress of the soul. 

Every now and then I used to try to shape a tale 
which in a figure might leave an arresting or a 
restraining thought in their minds ; or even touch 
with a light of romance some of the knightly virtues 
which are apt to be dulled into the aspect of common- 
place and uninteresting duties. 

It is very hard to make the simple choices of life 
assume a noble or an inspiring form. One sees 
long afterwards in later life how fine the right choice, 
the vigorous resistance, the honest perseverance 
might have been ; but the worst faults of boyhood 
have something exciting and even romantic about 
them — they would not be so alluring if they had 
not — while the homely virtues of honesty, frankness, 
modesty, and self-restraint appear too often as a 
dull and priggish abstention from the more daring 
and adventurous joys of eager living. If evil were 
alwa3^s ugly and goodness were always beautiful 
at first sight, there would be little of the trouble 
and havoc in the world that is wrought by sin and 
indolence. 

I chose, not deliberately but instinctively, the 
old romantic form for the setting of these tales, a 
semi-mediaeval atmosphere such as belongs to the 
literary epic ; some of the stories are pure fantasy; 
but they aU aim more or less directly at illustrat- 
ing the stern necessity of moral choice ; the diffi- 
culty is to get children to believe, at the brilliant 
outset of life, that it will not do to follow the de- 
lights of impulse. And one of the most pathetic 
parts of a schoolmaster's life is that he cannot, 



X PREFACE 

however earnestly and sincerel}^ he may wish to do 
so, transfer his o\^^Q experience to the boys, or per- 
suade them that, in the simple words of Browning, 
" It's wiser being good than bad." It may be 
wiser but it is certainly duller ! and the school- 
master has the horror, which ought never to be a 
faithless despair, of seeing bo\'S drift into habits 
of non-resistance, and sow with eager hand the seed 
which must almost inevitably grow up into the 
thorns and weeds of life. If the child could but 
grasp the bare truth, if one could but pull away 
the veil of the years and show him the careless natural 
joy ending in the dingy, broken slovenliness of 
failure ! But one cannot ; and perhaps life would 
lose all its virtue if one could. 

One does not know, one cannot dimty guess, why 
all these attractive opportunities of evil are so 
thickly strewn about the path of the young in a 
world which we believe to be ultimately ruled by 
Justice and Love. Much of it comes from our own 
blindness and hardness of heart. Either we do not 
care enough ourselves, or we cannot risk the un- 
popularity of interfering with bad traditions, or we 
are lacking in imaginative sympathy, or we sophis- 
tically persuade ourselves into the belief that the 
character is strengthened by exposure to premature 
evil. The atmosphere of the boarding-school is a very 
artificial one ; its successes are patent, its debris we 
sweep away into a corner ; but whatever view we 
take of it all, it is a life which, if one cares for virtue 
at all, however half-heartedly, tries the mental 
and emotional faculties of the schoolmaster to the 
uttermost, and everj^ now and then shakes one's 



PREFACE xi 

heart to the depths with a terrible wonder as to 
how one can ever answer to the account which will 
be demanded. 

I do not claim to have realised my responsibilities 
fully, or to have done all I could to lead my flock 
along the right path. But I did desire to minimise 
temptations and to try to get the better side of the 
boys' hearts and minds to emphasise itself. One saw 
masters who seemed to meddle too much — ^that 
sometimes produced an atmosphere of guarded 
hostility — and one saw masters who seemed to be 
foolishly optimistic about it all ; but as a rule one 
found in one's colleagues a deep and serious pre- 
occupation with manly ideals of boy-life ; and in 
these stories I tried my best to touch into life the 
poetical and beautiful side of virtue, to show life 
as a pilgrimage to a far-off but glorious goal, with 
seductive bypaths turning off the narrow way, and 
evil shapes, both terrifying and alluring, which 
loitered in shady corners, or even sometimes 
straddled horribly across the very road. 

The romance, then, of these stories is coloured by 
what may be thought to be a conventional and 
commonplace morality enough ; but it is real for all 
that ; and life as it proceeds has a blessed way of 
revealing the urgency and the unseen features of the 
combat. It is just because virtue seems dry and 
humdrum that the struggle is so difficult. It is so 
hard to turn aside from what seems so dangerously 
beautiful, to what seems so plain and homely. But 
it is what we mostly have to do. 

I saw many years ago a strange parable of what 
I mean. I was walking through a quiet countryside 



xii PREFACE 

with a curious, fanciful, interesting boy, and we 
came to a little church off the track in a tiny church- 
yard full of high-seeded grasses. On the wall of 
the chancel hung an old trophy of armour, a helmet 
and a cuirass, black with age. The boy climbed 
quickly up upon the choir-stalls, took the helmet 
down, enclosed his own curly head in it, and then 
knelt down suddenly on the altar-step ; after which 
he replaced the helmet again on its nail. *' What 
put it into your head to do that ? " I said. " Oh," 
he said lightly, " I thought of the old man who wore 
it ; and they used to kneel before the altar in their 
armour when they were made knights, didn't they ? 
I wanted just to feel what it was like ! " 

Life was too strong for that boy, and he was 
worsted ! He won little credit in the fight. But 
it had been a pretty fancy of his, and perhaps some- 
thing more than a fancy. I have often thought 
of the little slender figure, so strangely helmeted, 
kneeling in the summer sunlight, with Heaven knows 
what thoughts of what life was to be ; it seems 
to me a sorrowful enough symbol of bo^^hood — so 
eager to share in the fraj , so unfit to bear the 
dinted helm. 

And yet I do not wish to be sorrowful, and it 
would be untrue to life to yield oneself to foolish 
pity. M}^ own little company is broken up long 
ago ; I wonder if they remember the old days 
and the old stories. They are good citizens m^ost 
of them, standing firmly and sturdily, finding out 
the meaning of life in their own way and contri- 
buting their part to the business of the world. 
But some of them have fallen by the way, and those 



PREFACE xiii 

not the faultiest or coarsest, but some of fine 
instinct and graceful charm, who evoked one's best 
hopes and most affectionate concern. 

If one believed that life were all, that there was no 
experience beyond the dark grave and the mouldering 
clay, it would be a miserable task enough to creep 
cautiously through life, just holding on to its tangible 
advantages and cautiously enjoying its delights. 
But I do most utterly believe that there is a truth 
beyond that satisfies our sharpest cravings and our 
wildest dreams, and that if we have loved what is 
high and good, even for a halting minute, it will 
come to bless us consciously and abundantly before 
we have done with experience. Many of our dreams 
are heavy-hearted enough ; we are hampered by 
the old faults, and by the body that not only can- 
not answer the demands of the spirit, but bars the 
way with its own urgent claims and desires. But 
whatever hope we can frame or conceive of peace 
and truth and nobleness and light shall be wholly 
and purely fulfilled ; and even if we are separated 
by a season, as we must be separated, from those 
whom we love and journey with, there is a union 
ahead of us when we shall remember gratefully the 
old dim days, and the path which we trod in hope 
and fear together ; when all the trouble we have 
wrought to ourselves and others will vanish into 
the shadow of a faded dream, in the sweetness and 
glory of some great city of God, full of fire and music 
and all the radiant visions of uplifted hearts, which 
visited us so faintly and yet so beckoningly in the 
old frail days. 



CONTENTS 



PAUL THE MINSTREL .... 


I 


THE ISLES OF SUNSET .... 


• 70 


THE WAVING OF THE SWORD . 


• 113 


RENATUS 


. 127 


THE SLYPE HOUSE 


. 138 


OUT OF THE SEA 


• 159 


THE TROTH OF THE SWORD . 


. 178 


THE HILL OF TROUBLE .... 


. 197 


THE GRAY CAT 


. 224 


THE RED CAMP 


• 247 


THE LIGHT OF THE BODY 


• 279 


THE SNAKE, THE LEPER, AND THE GREY FR( 


DST 301 


BROTHER ROBERT 


• 322 


THE CLOSED WINDOW .... 


. 348 


THE BROTHERS 


. 363 


THE TEMPLE OF DEATH .... 


. 378 


THE TOMB OF HEIRI .... 


. 402 


CERDA 


. 419 


LINUS 


. 428 



XV 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 



The old House of Heritage stood just below the 
downs, in the few meadows that were all that was 
left of a great estate. The house itself was of stone, 
ver}^ firml}^ and gravely built ; and roofed with thin 
slabs of stone, small at the roof-ridge, and increas- 
ing in size towards the eaves. Inside, there were 
a few low panelled rooms opening on a large central 
hall ; there was little furniture, and that of a sturdy 
and solid kind — but the house needed nothing else, 
and had all the beaut}^ that came of a simple 
austerity. 

Old Mistress Alison, who abode there, was aged 
and poor. She had but one house-servant, a serious 
and honest maid, whose only pride was to keep the 
place sweet, and save her mistress from all care. 
But Mistress Alison was not to be dismayed by 
poverty ; she was a tranquil and loving woman, 
who had never married ; but who, as if to com- 
pensate her for the absence of nearer ties, had a 
simple and wholesome love of all created things. 
She was infirm now, but was quite content, when 
it was fine, to sit for long hours idle for very love, 
and look about her with a peaceful and smiling air ; 
she prayed much, or rather held a sweet converse 
in her heart with God ; she thought little of her 

A 



2 PAUL THE MINSTREL 

latter end, which she knew could not be long de- 
layed, but was content to leave it in the hands of 
the Father, sure that He, who had made the world 
so beautiful and so full of love, would comfort her 
when she came to enter in at the dark gate. 

There was also an old and silent man who looked 
after the cattle and the few hens that the household 
kept ; at the back of the house was a thatched 
timbered grange, where he laid his tools ; but he 
spent his time mostly in the garden, which sloped 
down to the fishpond, and was all bordered with 
box ; here was a pleasant homely scent, on hot 
days, of the good herbs that shed their rich smell 
in the sun ; and here the flies, that sate in the leaves, 
would buzz at the sound of a footfall, and then be 
still again, cleaning their hands together in their 
busy manner. 

The only other member of the quiet household 
was the boy Paul, who was distantly akin to Mis- 
tress Alison. He had neither father nor mother, 
and had lived at Heritage all of his life that he 
could remember ; he was a slender, serious boy, 
with delicate features, and large grey eyes that 
looked as if they held a secret ; but if they had, 
it was a secret of his forefathers ; for the boy had 
led a most quiet and innocent life ; he had been 
taught to read in a fashion, but he had no schooling ; 
sometimes a neighbouring goodwife would say to 
Mistress Alison that the boy should be sent to 
school, and Mistress Alison would open her peaceful 
eyes and say, " Nay, Paul is not like other boys — 
he would get all the hurt and none of the good of 
school ; when there is work for him he will do it — 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 3 

but I am not for making all toil alike. Paul shall 
grow up like the lilies of the field. God made not 
all things to be busy." And the goodwife would 
shake her head and wonder ; for it was not easy 
to answer Mistress Alison, who indeed was often 
right in the end. 

So Paul grew up as he would ; sometimes he 
would help the old gardener, when there was work 
to be done ; for he loved to serve others, and was 
content with toil if it was sweetened with love ; 
but often he rambled by himself for hours together ; 
he cared little for compan}/, because the earth was 
to him full of wonder and of sweet sights and sounds. 
He loved to chmb the down, and lie feasting his 
eyes on the rich plain, spread out like a map ; the 
farms in their closes, the villages from which went 
up the smoke at evening, the distant blue hills, like 
the hills of heaven, the winding river, and the lake 
that lay in the winter twilight like a shield of silver. 
He loved to see the sun flash on the windows of the 
houses so distant that they could not themselves be 
seen, but only sparkled like stars. He loved to 
loiter on the edge of the steep hanging woods in 
summer, to listen to the humming of the flies deep 
in the brake, and to catch a sight of lonely flowers ; 
he loved the scent of the wind blowing softly out 
of the copse, and he wondered what the trees said 
to each other, when they stood still and happy in 
the heat of midday. He loved, too, the silent 
night, full of stars, when the wood that topped the 
hill lay black against the sky. The whole world 
seemed to him to be full of a m.ysterious and beau- 
tiful life of which he could never quite catch the 



4 PAUL THE MINSTREL 

secret ; these innocent flowers, these dreaming 
trees seemed, as it were, to hold him smiling at 
arm's length, while they guarded their joy from 
him. The birds and the beasts seemed to him to 
have less of this quiet joy, for they were fearful 
and careful, working hard to find a living, and 
dreading the sight of man ; but sometimes in the 
fragrant eventide the nightingale would say a little 
of what was in her heart. " Yes," Paul would say 
to himself, " it is like that." 

One other chief delight the boy had ; he knew 
the magic of sound, which spoke to his heart in a 
way that it speaks to but few ; the sounds of the 
earth gave up their sweets to him ; the musical 
fluting of owls, the liquid notes of the cuckoo, the 
thin pipe of dancing flies, the mournful creaking 
of the cider-press, the horn of the oxherd wound 
far off on the hill, the tinkling of sheep-bells — of 
all these he knew the notes ; and not only these, 
but the rhythmical swing of the scythes sweeping 
through the grass, the flails heard through the hot 
air from the barn, the clinking of the anvil in the 
village forge, the bubble of the stream through the 
weir — all these had a tale to tell him. Sometimes, 
for days together, he would hum to himself a few 
notes that pleased him by their sweet cadence, and 
he would string together some simple words to 
them, and sing them to himself with gentle content. 
The song of the reapers on the upland, or the rude 
chanting in the little church had a magical charm 
for him ; and Mistress Alison would hear the boy, 
in his room overhead, singing softly to himself for 
very gladness of heart, like a little bird of the 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 5 

dawn, or tapping out some tripping beat of time ; 
when she would wonder and speak to God of what 
was in her heart. 

As Paul grew older — ^he was now about sixteen — 
a change came slowly over his mind ; he began to 
have moods of a silent discontent, a longing for 
something far away, a desire of he knew not what. 
His old dreams began to fade, though they visited 
him from time to time ; but he began to care less 
for the silent beautiful life of the earth, and to 
take more thought of men. He had never felt 
much about himself before ; but one day, lying 
beside a woodland pool at the feet of the down, he 
caught a sight of his own face ; and when he smiled 
at it, it seemed to smile back at him ; he began to 
wonder what the world was like, and what all the 
busy people that lived therein said and thought ; 
he began to wish to have a friend, that he might 
tell him what was in his heart — and yet he knew 
not what it was that he would say. He began, 
too, to wonder how people regarded him — the 
people who had before been but to him a distant 
part of the shows of the world. Once he came in 
upon Mistress Alison, who sate talking with a gossip 
of hers ; when he entered, there was a sudden 
silence, and a glance passed between the two ; and 
Paul divined that they had been speaking of him- 
self, and desired to know what they had said. 

One day the old gardener, in a more talkative 
mood than was his wont, told him a tale of one 
who had visited the Wishing Well that lay a few 
miles away, and, praying for riches, had found the 
next day, in digging, an old urn of pottery, full 



6 PAUL THE MINSTREL 

of ancient coins. Paul was very urgent to know 
about the well, and the old man told him that it 
must be visited at noonday and alone. That he 
that would have his wish must throw a gift into 
the water, and drink of the well, and then, turning 
to the sun, must wish his wish aloud. Paul asked 
him many more questions, but the old man would 
say no more. So Paul determined that he would 
visit the place for himself. 

The next day he set off. He took with him one 
of his few possessions, a little silver coin that a 
parson hard by had given him. He went his way 
quickly among the pleasant fields, making towards 
the great bulk of Blackdown beacon, where the 
hills swelled up into a steep bluff, with a white 
road, cut in the chalk, winding steeply up their 
green smooth sides. It was a fresh morning with 
a few white clouds racing merrily overhead, the 
shadows of which fell every now and then upon 
the down and ran swiftly over it, like a flood of 
shade leaping down the sides. There were few 
people to be seen anywhere ; the fields were full of 
grass, with large daisies and high red sorrel. By 
midda}/ he was beneath the front of Blackdown, and 
here he asked at a cottage of a good-natured woman, 
that was bustling in and out, the way to the well. 
She answered him very kindly and described the 
path — ^it was not many yards away — and then 
asked where he came from, sa3dng briskl3^ " And 
what would you wish for ? I should have thought 
you had all 3^ou could desire." " Wlw, I hardly 
know," said Paul, smiling. " It seems that I desire 
a thousand things, and can scarcely give a name 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 7 

to one." " That is ever the way," said the woman, 
" but the day will come when you will be content 
with one." Paul did not understand what she 
meant, but thanked her and went on his way ; 
and wondered that she stood so long looking after 
him. 

At last he came to the spring. It was a pool 
in a field, ringed round by alders. Paul thought 
he had never seen a fairer place. There grew a 
number of great kingcups round the brim, with their 
flowers like glistening gold, and with cool thick 
stalks and fresh leaves. Inside the ring of flowers 
the pool looked strangely deep and black ; but 
looking into it you could see the sand leaping at 
the bottom in three or four cones ; and to the left 
the water bubbled away in a channel covered with 
water-plants. Paul could see that there was an 
abundance of little things at the bottom, half 
covered with sand — coins, flowers, even little jars 
— which he knew to be the gifts of wishers. So he 
flung his own coin in the pool, and saw it slide hither 
and thither, glancing in the Hght, till it settled at 
the dark bottom. Then he dipped and drank, 
turned to the sun, and closing his eyes, said out 
loud, " Give me what I desire." And this he re- 
peated three times, to be sure that he was heard. 
Then he opened his eyes again, and for a moment 
the place looked diHerent, with a strange grey 
light. But there was no answer to his prayer in 
heaven or earth, and the very sky seemed to wear a 
quiet smile. 

Paul waited a httle, half expecting some answer ; 
but presently he turned his back upon the pool 



8 PAUL THE MINSTREL 

and walked slowly away ; the down lay on one 
side of him, looking solemn and dark over the trees 
which grew verj^ plentifully ; Paul thought that he 
would like to walk upon the down ; so he went up 
a little leafy lane that seemed to lead to it. Sud- 
denly, as he passed a small thicket, a voice hailed 
him ; it was a rich and cheerful voice, and it came 
from under the trees. He turned in the direction 
of the voice, which seemed to be but a few yards 
off, and saw, sitting on a green bank under the 
shade, two figures. One was a man of middle age, 
dressed lightly as though for travelling, and Paul 
thought somewhat fantastically. His hat had a 
flower stuck in the band. But Paul thought little 
of the dress, because the face of the man attracted 
him ; he was sunburnt and strong-looking, and 
Paul at first thought he must be a soldier ; he had 
a short beard, and his hair was grown rather long ; 
his face was deeply lined, but there was something 
wonderfully good-natured, friendly, and kind about 
his whole expression. He was smiling, and his smile 
showed small white teeth ; and Paul felt in a 
moment that he could trust him, and that the man 
was friendly disposed to himself and all the world ; 
friendly, not in a servile way, as one who wished to 
please, but in a sort of prodigal, royal way, as one 
who had great gifts to bestow, and was liberal of 
them, and looked to be made welcome. The other 
figure was that of a boy rather older than himself, 
with a merry ugly face, who in looking at Paul, 
seemed yet to keep a sidelong and deferential glance 
at the older man, as though admiring him, and 
desiring to do as he did in all things. 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 9 

" Where go you, pretty boy, alone in the noon- 
tide ? " said the man. 

Paul stopped and listened, and for a moment 
could not answer. Then he said, " I am going to 
the down, sir, and I have been " — he hesitated for 
a moment — " I have been to the Wishing Well." 

" The Wishing Well ? " said the man gravely. 
" I did not know there was one hereabouts. I 
thought that every one in this happy valley had 
been too well content — and what did you wish for, 
if I may ask ? " 

Paul was silent and grew red ; and then he said, 
" Oh, just for my heart's desire." 

*' That is either a very cautious or a very beau- 
tiful answer," said the man, " and it gives me a 
lesson in manners ; but will you not sit a little 
with us in the shade ? — and you shall hear a con- 
cert of music such as I dare say 3^ou shall hardly 
hear out of France or Italy. Do you practise music, 
child, the divine gift ? " 

" I love it a little," said Paul, " but I have no 
skill." 

" Yet you look to m_e like one who might have 
skill," said the man ; " you have the air of it — 
you look as though you listened, and as though you 
dreamed pleasant dreams. But, Jack," he said, 
turning to his bo\^ " what shall we give our friend ? 
— shall he have the ' Song of the Rose ' first ? " 

The boy at this word drew a little metal pipe out 
of his doublet, and put it to his lips ; and the man 
reached out his hand and took up a small lute which 
lay on the bank beside him. He held up a warning 
finger to the boy. " Remember," he said, " that 



10 PAUL THE MINSTREL 

you come in at the fifth chord, together with the 
voice — not before." He struck four simple chords 
on the lute, very gently, and with a sort of dainty 
preciseness ; and then at the same moment the 
little pipe and his own voice began ; the pipe played 
a simple descant in quicker time, with two notes to 
each note of the song, and the mxan in a brisk and 
simple way, as it were at the edge of his lips, sang 
a very sweet little country song, in a quiet homely 
measure. 

There seemed to Paul to be nothing short of 
magic about it. There was a beautiful restraint 
about the voice, which gave him a sense both of 
power and feeling held back ; but it brought before 
him a sudden picture of a garden, and the sweet 
life of the flowers and little trees, taking what 
came, sunshine and rain, and just living and smil- 
ing, breathing fragrant breath from morning to 
night, and sleeping a light sleep till they should 
waken to another tranquil day. He listened as if 
spellbound. There were but three verses, and 
though he could not remember the words, it seemed 
as though the rose spoke and told her dreams. 

He could have listened for ever ; but the voice 
made a sudden stop, not prolonging the last note, 
but keeping very closely to the time ; the pipe 
played a little run, like an echo of the song, the man 
struck a brisk chord on the lute — and all was over. 
" Bravely played. Jack ! " said the singer ; "no 
musician could have played it better. You remem- 
bered what I told you, to keep each note separate, 
and have no gliding. This song must trip from 
beginning to end, like a brisk bird that hops on the 



PAUL THE MINSTREL ii 

grass." Then he turned to Paul and, with a smile, 
said, " Reverend sir, how does my song please 
you ? 

" I never heard anything more beautiful," said 
Paul simply. " I cannot say it, but it was like a 
door opened ; " and he looked at the minstrel with 
intent eyes ; — " may I hear it again ? " " Boy," 
said the singer gravely, *' I had rather have such a 
look as you gave me during the song than a golden 
crown. You will not understand what I say, but 
you paid me the homage of the pure heart, the 
best reward that the minstrel desires." 

Then he conferred with the other boy in a low 
tone, and struck a very sad yet strong chord upon 
his lute ; and then, with a grave face, he sang what 
to Paul seemed like a dirge for a dead hero who had 
done with mortal things, and w^hose death seemed 
more a triumph than a sorrow. When he had sung 
the first verse, the pipe came softly and sadly in, 
like the voice of grief that could not be controlled, 
the weeping of those on whom lay the shadow of 
loss. To Paul, in a dim way — for he was but a child 
— the song seemed the voice of the world, lamenting 
its noblest, yet triumphing in their greatness, and 
desirous to follow in their steps. It brought before 
him all the natural sorrows of death, the call to 
quit the sweet and pleasant things of the world — 
a call that could not be denied, and that was in 
itself indeed stronger and even sweeter than the 
delights which it bade its listeners leave. And Paul 
seemed to walk in some stately procession of men 
far off and ancient, who followed a great king to 
the grave, and whose hearts were too full of wonder 



12 PAUL THE MINSTREL 

to think yet what they had lost. It was an up- 
lifting sadness ; and when the sterner strain came 
to an end, Paul said very quietly, putting into 
words the thoughts of his full heart, " I did not 
think that death could be so beautiful." And the 
minstrel smiled, but Paul saw that his eyes were 
full of tears. 

Then all at once the minstrel struck the lute 
swiftly and largely, and sang a song of those that 
march to victory, not elated nor excited, but strong 
to dare and to do ; and Paul felt his heart beat 
within him, and he longed to be of the company. 
After he had sung this to an end, there was a silence, 
and the minstrel said to Paul, yet as though half 
speaking to himself, " There, my son, I have given 
you a specimen of my art ; and I think from your 
look that you might be of the number of those 
that make these rich jewels that men call songs ; 
and should you try to do so, be mindful of these 
two things : let them be perfect first. You will 
make many that are not perfect. In some the soul 
will be wanting ; in others the body, in a manner 
of speaking, will be amiss ; for they are living 
things, these songs, and he that makes them is a 
kind of god. Well, if you cannot mend one, throw 
it aside and think no more of it. Do not save it 
because it has some gracious touch, for in this are 
the masters of the craft different from the mere 
makers of songs. The master will have nothing 
but what is perfect within and without, while the 
lesser craftsman will save a poor song for the sake 
of a fine line or phrase. 

" And next, you must do it for the love of your 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 13 

art, and not for the praise it wins you. That is a 
poisoned wine, of which if you drink, j^ou will never 
know the pure and high tranquillity of spirit that 
befits a master. The master may be discouraged 
and troubled oft, but he m^ust have in his soul a 
blessed peace, and know the worth and beauty of 
what he does ; for there is nothing nobler than to 
make beautiful things, and to enlighten the generous 
heart. Fighting is a fair trade, and though it is 
noble in much, yet its end is to destroy ; but the 
master of song mars nought, but makes joy ; — and 
that is the end of my sermon for the time. And 
now," he added briskly, " I must be going, for I 
have far to fare ; but I shall pass by this way 
again, and shall inquire of your welfare ; tell me 
your name and where 3^ou live." So Paul told him, 
and then added timidly enough that he would fain 
know how to begin to practise his art. " Silence ! " 
said the minstrel, rather fiercely ; ** that is an evil 
and timorous thought. If you are worthy, you will 
find the way." And so in the hot afternoon he said 
farewell, and walked lightly off. And Paul stood 
in wonder and hope, and saw the two figures leave 
the fiat, take to the down, and wind up the steep 
road, ever growing smaller, till they topped the 
ridge, where they seemed to stand a moment larger 
than human ; and presently they were lost from 
view. 

So Paul made his way home ; and when he 
pushed the gate of Heritage open, he wondered to 
think that he could recollect nothing of the road 
he had traversed. He went up to the house and 
entered the hall. There sate Mistress Alison, read- 



14 PAUL THE MINSTREL 

ing in a little book. She closed it as he came in, 
and looked at him with a smile. Paul went up to 
her and said, " Mother " (so he was used to call 
her), " I have heard songs to-day such as I never 
dreamt of, and I pray you to let me learn the art 
of making music ; I must be a minstrel." " ' Must ' 
is a grave word, dear heart," said Mistress Alison, 
looking somewhat serious ; " but let me hear your 
story first." So Paul told of his meeting with the 
minstrel. Mistress AHson sate musing a long time, 
smiling when she met Paul's eye, till he said at last, 
" Will you not speak, mother ? " "I know," she 
said at last, *' whom you have met, dear child — 
that is Mark, the great minstrel. He travels about 
the land, for he is a restless man, though the king 
himself would have him dwell in his court, and 
make music for him. Yet I have looked for this 
day, though it has come when I did not expect it. 
And now I must tell you a story, Paul, in my turn. 
Many years ago there was a boy like you, and he 
loved music too and the making of songs, and he 
grew to great skill therein. But it was at last his 
ruin, for he got to love riotous company and feasting 
too well ; and so his skill forsook him, as it does 
those that live not cleanly and nobly. And he 
married a young wife, having won her by his songs, 
and a child was born to them. But the minstrel 
fell sick and presently died, and his last prayer was 
that his son might not know the temptation of song. 
And his wife lingered a little, but she soon pined 
away, for her heart was broken within her ; and 
she too died. And now, Paul, Hsten, for the truth 
must be told — ^j^ou are that child, the son of sorrow 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 15 

and tears. And here you have lived with me all 
your life ; but because the tale was a sad one, I 
have forborne to tell it you. I have waited and 
wondered to see whether the gift of the father is 
given to the son ; and sometimes I have thought 
it might be yours, and sometimes I have doubted. 
And now, child, we will talk of this no more to-day, 
for it is ill to decide in haste. Think well over what 
I have said, and see if it makes a difference in your 
wishes. I have told you all the tale." 

Now the story that Mistress Alison had told him 
dwelt very much in Paul's mind that night ; but 
it seemed to him strange and far off, and he did not 
doubt what the end should be. It was as though 
the sight of the minstrel, his songs and words, had 
opened a window in his mind, and that he saw 
out of it a strange and enchanted country, of woods 
and streams, with a light of evening over it, bounded 
by far-off hills, all blue and faint, among which some 
beautiful thing was hidden for him to find ; it 
seemed to call him softly to come ; the trees smiled 
upon him, the voice of the streams bade him make 
haste — it all waited for him, like a country waiting 
for its lord to come and take possession. 

Then it seemed to him that his soul slipped like 
a bird from the window, and rising in the air over 
that magical land, beat its wings softly in the pale 
heaven ; and then like a dove that knows, by some 
inborn mysterious art, which way its path lies, his 
spirit paused upon the breeze, and then sailed out 
across the tree-tops. Whither ? Paul knew not. 
And so at last he slipped into a quiet sleep. 

He woke in the morning all of a sudden, with a 



i6 PAUL THE MINSTREL 

kind of tranquil joy and purpose ; and when he 
was dressed, and gone into the hall, he found Mis- 
tress Alison sitting in her ehair beside the table 
laid for their meal. She was silent and looked 
troubled, and Paul went up softh' to her, and kissed 
her and said/' I have chosen." She did not need to 
ask him what he had chosen, but put her arm about 
him and said, " Then, dear Paul, be content — and 
we will have one more day together, the last of the 
old days ; and to-morrow^ shall the new life begin." 

So the two passed a long and quiet day together. 
For to the wise and loving-hearted woman this was 
the last of sweet days, and her soul went out to the 
past with a great hunger of love ; but she stilled it 
as was her wont, saying to herself that this dear 
passage of hfe had liitherto only been hke the clear 
trickling of a woodland spring, wliile the love of 
the Father's heart was as it were a great river of 
love marching softly to a wide sea, on which river 
the very world itself floated like a flower-bloom 
between widening banks. 

And indeed if any had watched them that day, 
it would have seemed that she was the serener ; 
for the thought of the life that la}' before Mm 
worked like wine in the heart of Paul, and he could 
only by an effort bring liimself back to loving looks 
and offices of tenderness. They spent the whole 
day together, for the most part in a peaceful silence ; 
and at last the sun went do\\Ti, and a cool breeze 
came up out of the west, laden with scent from 
miles and miles of gi"ass and flowers, wliich seemed 
to bear with it the fragrant breath of myriads of 
sweet li\'ing tilings. 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 17 

Then they ate together what was the last meal 
they were to take thus alone. And at last Mistress 
Alison would have Paul go to rest. And so she 
took his hand in hers, and said, " Dear child, the 
good years are over now ; but you will not forget 
them ; only lean upon the Father, for He is very 
strong ; and remember that though the voice of 
melody is sweet, yet the loving heart is deeper 
yet.'* And then Paul suddenly broke out into a 
passion of weeping, and kissed his old friend on 
hand and cheek and lips ; and then he burst away, 
ashamed, if the truth be told, that his love was 
not deeper than he found it to be. 

He slept a Hght sleep that night, his head pil- 
lowed on his hand, with many strange dreams rang- 
ing through his head. Among other fancies, some 
sweet, some dark, he heard a delicate passage of 
melody played, it seemed to him, by three silver- 
sounding flutes, so delicate that he could hardly 
contain himself for gladness ; but among his sadder 
dreams was one of a little man habited like a min- 
strel who played an ugly enchanted kind of melody 
on a stringed lute, and smiled a treacherous smile 
at him ; Paul woke in a sort of fever of the spirit ; 
and rising from his bed, felt the floor cool to his 
feet, and drew his curtain aside ; in a tender radiance 
of dawn he saw the barn, deep in shadow, in the 
little garden ; and over them a little wood-end that 
he knew well by day — a simple place enough — but 
now it had a sort of magical dreaming air ; the 
mist lay softly about it like the breath of sleep ; 
and the trees, stretching wistfully their leafy arms, 
seemed to him to be full of silent prayer, or to be 



i8 PAUL THE MINSTREL 

hiding within them some divine secret that might 
not be shown to mortal eyes. He looked long at 
this ; and presently went back to his bed, and 
shivered in a delicious warmth, while outside, very 
gradually, came the peaceful stir of m.orning. A 
bird or two fluted drowsily in the bushes ; then 
another further away would join his slender song ; 
a cock crew cheerily in a distant grange, and soon 
it was broad day. Presently the house began to 
be softly astir ; and the faint fragrance of an early 
kindled fire of wood stole into the room. Then, 
worn out by his long vigil, he fell asleep again ; and 
soon waking, knew it to be later than was his wont, 
and dressed with haste. He cam.e down, and heard 
voices in the hall ; he went in, and there saw Mis- 
tress Alison in her chair ; and on the hearth, talk- 
ing gaily and cheerily, stood Mark the minstrel. 
They made a pause when he came in. Mark ex- 
tended his hand, which Paul took with a kind of 
reverence. Then Mistress Alison, with her sweet 
old smile, said to Paul, " So you made a pilgrimage 
to the Well of the Heart's Desire, dear Paul ? 
Well, you have your wish, and very soon ; for here 
is a master for you, if you will serve him.." " Not 
a light service, Paul," said Mark gravely, " but a 
true one. I can take you with me when you may 
go, for my boy Jack is fallen sick with a stroke 
of the sun, and must bide at home awhile." They 
looked at Paul, to see what he would say. ** Oh, 
I will go gladly," he said, " if I may." And then 
he felt he had not spoken lovingly ; so he kissed 
Mistress Alison, who smxiled, but som.ewhat sadly, 
and said, " Yes, Paul — I understand." 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 19 

So when the meal was over, Paul's small baggage 
was m.ade read}^ and he kissed Mistress Alison — 
and then she said to Mark with a sudden look, 
" You will take care of hirn ? " " Oh, he shall be 
safe with me,'' said Mark, " and if he be apt and 
faithful, he shall learn his trade, as few can learn 
it." And then Paul said his good-bye, and walked 
away with Mark ; and his heart was so full of glad- 
ness that he stepped out lightly and blithely, and 
hardly looked back. But at the turn of the road 
he stopped, while Mark seemed to consider him 
gravely. The three that were to abide, Mistress 
Alison, and the maid, and the old gardener, stood 
at the door and waved their hands ; the old house 
seemed to look fondly out of its windows at him., 
as though it had a heart ; and the very trees seemed 
to wave him a soft farewell. Paul waved his hand 
too, and a tear came into his eyes ; but he was 
eager to be gone ; and indeed, in his heart, he felt 
almost jealous of even the gentle grasp of his home 
upon his heart. And so Mark and Paul set out 
for the south. 



II 



Of the life that Paul lived with Mark I must not 
here tell ; but before he grew to full manhood he 
had learned his art well. Mark was a strict m.aster, 
but not impatient. The only thing that angered 
him was carelessness or listlessness ; and Paul was 
an apt and untiring pupil, and learnt so easily and 
deftly that Mark was often astonished. '* How did 
you learn that ? " he said one day suddenty to Paul 



1 -1 



20 PAUL THE MINSTREL 

when the boy was practising on the lute, and played 
a strange soft cadence, of a kind that Mark had 
never heard. The boy was startled by the ques- 
tion, for he had not thought that Mark was listening 
to him. He looked up with a blush and turned his 
eyes on Mark. " Is it not right ? " he said. " I 
did not learn it ; it comes from somewhere in my 
mind." 

Paul learnt to play several instruments, both 
wind and string. Sometimes he loved one sort the 
best, sometimes the other. The wind instruments 
of wood had to him a kind of soft magic, like the 
voice of a gentle spirit, a spirit that dwelt in lonely 
un visited places, and communed more with things 
of earth than the hearts of men. In the flutes and 
bassoons seemed to him to dwell the voices of airs 
that murmured in the thickets, the soft gliding of 
streams, the crooning of serene birds, the peace of 
noonday, the welling of clear springs, the beauty of 
little waves, the bright thoughts of stars. Some- 
times in certain modes, they could be sad, but it 
was the sadness of lonely homeless things, old 
dreaming spirits of wind and wave, not the sadness 
of such things as had known love and lost what 
they had loved, but the melancholy of such forlorn 
beings as by their nature were shut out from the 
love that dwells about the firelit hearth and the old 
roofs of homesteads. It was the sadness of the 
wind that wails in desolate places, knowing that it 
is lonely, but not knowing what it desires ; or the 
soft sighing of trees that murmur all together in a 
forest, dreaming each its own dream, but with no 
thought of comradeship or desire. 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 21 

The metal instruments, out of which the cunning 
breath could draw bright music, seemed to him 
soulless too in a sort, but shrill and enlivening. 
These clarions and trumpets spoke to him of brisk 
morning winds, or the cold sharp plunge of green 
waves that leap in triumph upon rocks. To such 
sounds he fancied warriors marching out at morning, 
with the joy of fight in their hearts, meaning to 
deal great blows, to slay and be slain, and hardly 
thinking of what would come after, so sharp and 
swift an eagerness of spirit held them ; but these 
instruments he loved less. 

Best of all he loved the resounding strings that 
could be twanged by the quill, or swept into a 
heavenly melody by the finger-tips, or throb be- 
neath the strongly drawn bow. In all of these lay 
the secrets of the heart ; in these Paul heard speak 
the bright dreams of the child, the vague hopes of 
growing boy or girl, the passionate desires of love, 
the silent loyalty of equal friendship, the dreariness 
of the dejected spirit, whose hopes have set like 
the sun smouldering to his fall, the rebellious grief 
of the heart that loses what it loves, the darkening 
fears that begin to roll about the ageing mind, like 
clouds that weep on mountain tops, and the despair 
of sinners, finding the evil too strong. 

Best of all it was when all these instruments 
could conspire together to weave a sudden dream 
of beauty that seemed to guard a secret. What 
was the secret ? It seemed so near to Paul some- 
times, as if he were like a man very near the edge 
of some mountain from which he may peep into 
an unknown valley. Sometimes it was far away. 



22 PAUL THE MINSTREL 

But it was there, he doubted not, though it hid 
itself. It was Hke a dance of fairies in a forest 
glade, which a man could half discern through the 
screening leaves ; but, when he gains the place, he 
sees nothing but tall flowers with drooping bells, 
bushes set with buds, large-leaved herbs, all with 
a silent, secret, smiling air, as though they said, 
" We have seen, we could tell." 

Paul seemed very near this baffling secret at 
times ; in the dewy silence of mornings, just before 
the sun comes up, when familiar woods and trees 
stand in a sort of musing happiness ; at night when 
the sky is thickly sown with stars, or when the 
moon rises in a soft hush and silvers the sleeping 
pool ; or when the sun goes down in a rich pomp, 
trailing a great glow of splendour with him among 
cloudy islands, all flushed with fiery red. When 
the sun withdrew himself thus, flying and flaring 
to the west, behind the boughs of leafless trees, 
what was the hidden secret presence that stood 
there as it were finger on lip, inviting j^et denying ? 
Paul knew within himself that if he could but say 
or sing this, the world would never forget. But 
he could not yet. 

Then, too, Paul learned the magic of words, the 
melodious accent of letters, sometimes so sweet, 
sometimes so harsh ; then the growing phrase, the 
word that beckons as it were other words to join 
it trippingly ; the thought that draws the blood to 
the brain, and sets the heart beating swiftly — ^he 
learned the words that sound like far-off bells, or 
that wake a gentle echo in the spirit, the words that 
burn into the heart, and make the hearer ashamed 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 23 

of all that is hard and low. But he learned, too, 
that the craftsman in words must not build up his 
song word by word, as a man fetches bricks to make 
a wall ; but that he must see the whole thought 
clear first, in a kind of divine flash, so that when he 
turns for words to write it, he finds them piled to 
his hand. 

All these things Paul learnt, and daj^ by day he 
suffered all the sweet surprises and joys of art. 
There were days that were not so, when the strings 
jangled aimlessly, and seemed to have no soul in 
them ; days when it appeared that the cloud could 
not lift, as though light and music together were 
dead in the world — ^but these days were few ; and 
Paul growing active and strong, caring little what he 
ate and drank, tasting no wine, because it fevered 
him at first, and then left him ill at ease, know- 
ing no evil or luxurious thoughts, sleeping hghtly 
and hardly, found his spirits very pure and plentiful ; 
or if he was sad, it was a clear sadness that had 
something beautiful within it, and dwelt not on any 
past grossness of his own, but upon the thought 
that all beautiful things can but live for a time, 
and must then be laid away in the darkness and 
in the cold. 

So Paul grew up knowing neither friendship nor 
love, only stirred at the sight of a beautiful face, a 
shapely hand, or a slender form ; by a grateful 
wonder for what was so fair ; untainted by any 
desire to master it, or make it his own ; living only 
for his art, and with a sort of blind devotion to 
Mark, whom he soon excelled, though he knew it 
not. Mark once said to him, when Paul had made 



24 PAUL THE MINSTREL 

a song of some old forgotten sorrow, " How do you 
know all this, boy ? You have not suffered, you 
have not lived ! " " Oh," said Paul gaily, know- 
ing it to be praise, " my heart tells me it is so." 

Paul, too, as he grew to manhood, found himself 
with a voice that was not loud, but true — a voice 
that thrilled those who heard it through and through ; 
but it seemed strange that he felt not what he made 
other men feel ; rather his music was like a still 
pool that can reflect all that is above it, the sombre 
tree, the birds that fly over, the starry silence of 
the night, the angry redness of the dawn. 

It was on one of his journeys with Mark that the 
news of Mistress Alison's death reached him. Mark 
told him very carefully and tenderly, and while he 
repeated the three or four broken words in which 
Mistress Alison had tried to send a last message to 
Paul — for the end had come very suddenly — ^Mark 
himself found his voice falter, and his eyes fill with 
tears. Paul had, at that sight, cried a little ; but 
his life at the House of Heritage seemed to have 
faded swiftly out of his thoughts ; he was living 
very intently in the present, scaling, as it were, 
day by day, with earnest effort, the steep ladder 
of song. He thought a little upon Mistress Ah son, 
and on all her love and goodness : but it was with 
a tranquil sorrow, and not with the grief and pain 
of loss. Mark was very gentle with him for awhile ; 
and this indeed did shame Paul a little, to find 
himself being used so lovingly for a sorrow which 
he was hardly feeling. But he said to himself that 
sorrow must come unbidden, and that it was no 
sorrow that was made with labour and intention. 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 25 

He was a little angered with himself for his dullness 
— but then song was so beautiful, that he could 
think of nothing else ; he was dazzled. 

A little while after, Mark asked him whether, as 
they were near at hand, he would turn aside to see 
Mistress Alison's grave. And Paul said, " No ; I 
would rather feel it were all as it used to be ! " — 
and then seeing that Mark looked surprised and 
almost grieved, Paul, with the gentle hypocrisy of 
childhood, said, " I cannot bear it yet," which 
made Mark silent, and he said no more, but used 
Paul more gently than ever. 

One day Mark said to him, very gravely, as if he 
had long been pondering the matter, "It is time 
for me to take another pupil, Paul. I have taught 
you all I know ; indeed you have learned far more 
than I can teach." Then he told him that he had 
arranged all things meetly. That there was a 
certain Duke who lacked a minstrel, and that Paul 
should go and abide with him. That he should 
have his room at the castle, and should be held in 
great honour, making music only when he would. 
And then Mark would have added some words of 
love, for he loved Paul as a son. But Paul seemed 
to have no hunger in his heart, no thought of the 
days they had spent together ; so Mark said them 
not. But he added very gently, " And one thing, 
Paul, I must tell you. You will be a great master 
— ^indeed you are so already — ^and I can tell you 
nothing about the art that you do not know. But 
one thing I will tell you — that you have a human 
heart within you that is not yet awake : and when 
it awakes, it will be very strong ; so that a great 



26 PAUL THE MINSTREL 

combat, I think, lies before you. See that it over- 
come you not ! " And Paul said wondering, " Oh, 
I have a heart, but it is altogether given to song." 
And so Mark was silent. 

Then Paul went to the Duke's Castle of Wresting 
and abode with him year after year. Here, too, he 
made no friend ; he was gracious with all, and of a 
lofty courtesy, so that he was had in reverence ; 
and he made such music that the tears would come 
into the eyes of those who heard him, and they 
would look at each other, and wonder how Paul 
could thus tell the secret hopes of the heart. There 
were many women in the castle, great ladies, 3^oung 
maidens, and those that attended on them. Some 
of these would have proffered love to Paul, but their 
glances fell before a certain cold, virginal, almost 
affronted look, that he turned to meet any smile 
or gesture that seemed to hold in it any personal 
claim, or to offer any gift but that of an equal and 
serene friendship. As a maiden of the castle once 
said, provoked by his coldness, ** Sir Paul seems to 
have everything to say to all of us, but nothing to 
any one of us." He was kind to all with a sort of 
great and distant courtesy that was too secure even 
to condescend. And so the years passed away. 



Ill 



It was nearly noon at the Castle of Wresting, and 
the whole house was deserted, for the Duke had 
ridden out at daybreak to the hunt ; and all that 
could find a horse to ride had gone with him ; and, 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 27 

for it was not far afield, all else that could walk 
had gone afoot. So bright and cheerful a day was 
it that the Duchess had sent out her pavilion to be 
pitched in a lawn in the v/ood, and the Duke with 
his friends were to dine there ; none were left in 
the castle save a few of the elder serving-maids, and 
the old porter, who was lame. About midday, 
however, it seemed that one had been left ; for 
Paul, nov/ a tall man, strongty built and comely, 
yet with a somewhat dreamful air, as though he 
pondered difficult things within himself, and a 
troubled brow, under w^hich looked out large and 
gentle ej^es, came with a quick step down a stair- 
wa^^ He turned neither to right nor left, but 
passed through the porter's lodge. Here the road 
from the town camiC up into the castle on the left, 
cut steeply in the hill, and you could see the red 
roofs laid out like a map beneath, with the church 
and the bridge ; to the right ran a little terrace 
under the wall. Paul came through the lodge, 
nodding gravely to the porter, who returned his 
salute with a kind of reverence ; then he walked 
on to the terrace, and stood for a moment leaning 
against the low wall that bounded it ; below him 
lay for miles the great wood of Wresting, now all 
ablaze with the brave gold of autumn leaves ; here 
was a great tract of beeches all rusty red ; there was 
the pale gold of elms. The forest lay in the plain, 
here and there broken by clearings or open glades ; 
in one or two places could be seen the roofs of 
villages, with the tower of a church rising gravely 
among trees. On the horizon ran a blue line of 
downs, pure and fine above the fretted gold of the 



28 PAUL THE MINSTREL 

forest. The air was very ^s till, with a fresh sparkle 
in it, and the sun shone bright in a cloudless heaven ; 
it was a day when the heaviest heart grows light, 
and when it seems the bravest thing that can be 
designed to be alive. 

Once or twice, as Paul leaned to look, there came 
from the wood, very far away, the faint notes of a 
horn ; he smiled to hear it, and it seemed as though 
some merry thought came into his head, for he beat 
cheerfully with his fingers on the parapet. Pre- 
sently he seemed to bethink himself, and then walked 
briskly to the end of the terrace, where was a little 
door in the wall ; he pushed this open, and found 
himself at the head of a flight of stone steps, with 
low walls on either hand, that ran turning and 
twisting according to the slope of the hill, down into 
the wood. 

Paul went lightly down the steps ; once or twice 
he turned and looked up at the grey walls and 
towers of the castle, rising from the steep green 
turf at their foot, above the great leafless trees — 
for the trees on the slope lost their leaves first in 
the wind. The sight pleased him, for he smiled 
again. Then he stood for a moment, lower down, 
to watch the great limbs and roots of a huge beech 
that seemed to cling to the slope for fear of slipping 
downwards. He came presently to a little tower 
at the bottom that guarded the steps. The door 
was locked ; he knocked, and there came out an 
old woman with a merry wrinkled face, who opened 
it for him with a key, saying, " Do you go to the 
hunt. Sir Paul ? " " Nay," he said, smiling, " only 
to walk a little alone in the wood." '* To make 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 29 

music, perhaps ? " said the old woman shyly. 
" Perhaps," said Paul, smiling, " if the music 
come — but it will not always come for the 
wishing." 

As Paul walked in the deep places of the wood, 
little by little his fresh holiday mood died away, 
and there crept upon him a shadow of thought that 
had of late been no stranger to him. He asked 
himself, with some bitterness, what his life was 
tending to. There was no loss of skill in his art ; 
indeed it was easier to him than ever ; he had a 
rich and prodigal store of music in him, music both 
of word and sound, that came at his call. But the 
zest was leaving him. He had attained to his 
utmost desire, and in his art there was nothing more 
to conquer. But as he looked round about him 
and saw all the beautiful chains of love multiplying 
themselves about those among whom he lived, he 
began to wonder whether he was not after all miss- 
ing life itself. He saw children born, he saw them 
growing up ; then they, too, found their own path 
of love, they married, or were given in marriage ; 
presently they had children of their own ; and 
even death itself, that carried well-loved souls into 
the dark world, seemed to forge new chains of faith 
and loyalty. All this he could say and did say in 
his music. He knew it, he divined it by some 
magical instinct ; he could put into words and 
sounds the secrets that others could not utter — and 
there his art stopped. It could not bring him within 
the charmed circle — nav, it seemed to him that it 
was even like a fence that kept him outside. He 
looked forward to a time when his art of itself must 



30 PAUL THE MINSTREL 

fade, when other minstrels should arise with new 
secrets of power ; and what would become of him 
then? 

He had by this tim.e walked very far into the 
wood, and as he came down through a little rise, 
covered with leafy thickets, he saw before him a 
green track, that wound away among the trees. 
He followed it listlessly. The track led him through 
a beech wood ; the smooth and shapety stems, that 
stood free of undergrowth, thickly roofed over by 
firm and glossy autumn foliage, with the rusty 
fallen floor of last year's leaves underfoot, brought 
back to him his delight in the sweet and fresh 
world — so beautiful, whatever the restless human 
heart desired in its presence. 

He became presently aware that he was ap- 
proaching some dwelling, he knew not what ; and 
then the trees grew thinner ; and in a minute he 
was out in a little forest clearing, where stood, in 
a small and seemly garden, enclosed with hedges 
and low walls and a moat, a forest lodge, a long 
low ancient building, ending in a stone tower. 

The place had a singular charm. The ancient 
battlemented house, overgrown with ivy, the walls 
green and grey with lichens, seemed to have sprung 
as naturally out of the soil as the trees among 
which it stood, and to have become one with the 
place. He lingered for a m_oment on the edge of 
the moat, lookine at a little tower that rose out of 
the pool, mirrored softly in the open spaces of the 
water, among the lity-leaves. The whole place 
seemed to have a wonderful peace about it ; there 
was no sound but the whisper of leaves, and the 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 31 

doves crooning, in their high branching fastnesses, 
a song of peace. 

As Paul stood thus and looked upon the garden, 
a door opened, and there came out a lady, not old, 
but well advanced in years, with a shrev/d and 
kindly face ; and then Paul felt a sort of shame 
Vvdthin him, for standing and spying at what was 
not his own ; and he would have hurried away, 
but the lady waved her hand to him with a courtly 
air, as though inviting him to approach. So he 
cam.e forward, and crossing the moat by a little 
bridge that was hard by, he met her at the gate. 
He doffed liis hat, and said a few words asking 
pardon for thus intruding on a private place, but 
she gave him a swift smile and said, " Sir Paul, no 
more of this — ^}'ou are known to me, though you 
know me not. I have been at the Duke's as a 
guest ; I have heard you sing — ^indeed," she added 
smiling, " I have been honoured by having been 
made known to the prince of musical men — ^but he 
hath forgotten my poor self ; I am the Lady Beck- 
with, who welcomes you to her poor house — the 
Isle of Thorns, as they call it — and will deem it 
an honour that you should set foot therein ; though 
I think that you came not for my sake." 

" Alas, madam, no," said Paul, smiling too. " I 
did but walk solitary in the forest ; I am lacking 
in courtesy, I fear ; I knew not that there was a 
house here, but it pleased me to see it lie like a 
jewel in the wood." 

" You knew not it was here, or you would have 
shunned it ! " said the Lady Beckwith with a smile. 
" Well, I live here solitary enough with my daughters 



32 PAUL THE MINSTREL 

— ^my husband is long since dead — but to-day we 
must have a guest — ^you will enter and tarry with 
us a little ? " 

** Yes, very willingly," said Paul, who, like many 
men that care not much for company, was tenderly 
courteous when there was no escape. So after some 
further passages of courtesy, they went within. 

The Lady Beckwith led him into a fair tapestried 
room, and bade him be seated, while she went to 
call upon her servants to make ready refreshments 
for him. Paul seated himself in an oak chair and 
looked around him. The place was but scantily 
furnished, but Paul had pleasure in looking upon 
the old solid furniture, which reminded him of the 
House of Heritage and of his far-off boyhood. He 
was pleased, too, with the tapestry, which repre- 
sented a wood of walnut-trees, and a man that sate 
looking upon a stream as though he listened ; and 
then Paul discerned the figure of a brave bird 
wrought among the leaves, that seemed to sing ; 
while he looked, he heard the faint sound in a room 
above of some one moving ; then a lute was touched, 
and then there rose a soft voice, very pure and 
clear, that sang a short song of long sweet notes, 
with a descant on the lute, ending in a high drawn- 
out note, that went to Paul's heart like wine poured 
forth, and seemed to fill the room with a kind of 
delicate fragrance. 

Presently the Lady Beckwith returned ; and they 
sate and talked awhile, till there came suddenly 
into the room a maiden that seemed to Paul like a 
rose ; she came almost eagerly forward ; and Paul 
knew in his mind that it was she that had sung ; 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 33 

and there passed through his heart a feeling he had 
never known before ; it was as though it were a 
string that thrilled with a kind of delicious pain at 
being bidden by the touch of a finger to utter its 
voice. 

** This is my daughter Margaret," said the Lady 
Beckwith ; " she knows your fame in song, but 
she has never had the fortune to hear you sing, and 
she loves song herself." 

" And does more than love it," said Paul almost 
tremblingly, feeling the eyes of the maiden set upon 
his face ; " for I heard but now a lute touched, and 
a voice that sang a melody I know not, as few that 
I know could have sung it." 

The maiden stood smiling at him, and then Paul 
saw that she carried a lute in her hand ; and she 
said eagerly, " Will 5^ou not sing to us. Sir Paul ? " 

" Nay," said the Lady Beckwith, smiling, " but 
this is beyond courtesy ! It is to ask a prince to 
our house, and beg for the jewels that he wears." 

The maiden blushed rosy red, and put the lute 
by ; but Paul stretched out his hand for it. "I 
will sing most willingly," he said. " What is my life 
for, but to make music for those who would hear ? " 

He touched a few chords to see that the lute was 
well tuned ; and the lute obeyed his touch like a 
living thing ; and then Paul sang a song of spring- 
time that made the hearts of the pair dance with 
joy. When he had finished, he smiled, meeting the 
smiles of both ; and said, " And now w^e will have 
a sad song — for those are ever the sweetest — ^joy 
needs not to be made sweet." 

So he sang a sorrowful song that he had made 

c 



34 PAUL THE MINSTREL 

one winter daj^ when he had found the body of a 
little bird that had died of the frost and the hard 
silence of the unfriendly earth — a song of sweet 
things broken and good times gone by ; and before 
he had finished he had brought the tears to the 
eyes of the pair. The Lady Beckwith brushed 
them aside — ^but the girl sate watching him, her 
hands together, and a kind of worship in her face, 
with the bright tears, trembling on her cheeks. 
And Paul thought he had never seen a fairer 
thing ; but wishing to dry the tears, he made a 
little merr}^ song, like the song of gnats that dance 
up and down in the sun, and love their silly play — 
so that the two smiled again. 

Then they thanked him very urgently, and Mar- 
garet said, " If only dear Helen could hear this " ; 
and the Lady Beckwith said, " Helen is my other 
daughter, and she lies abed, and may not come 
forth." 

Then they put food before him ; and they ate 
together, Margaret serving him with meat and 
wine ; and Paul would have forbidden it, but the 
Lad}^ Beckwith said, " That is the way of our house 
— and you are our guest and must be content — for 
Margaret loves to serve you." The girl said little, 
but as she moved about softly and deftly, with the 
fragrance of youth about her, Paul had a desire to 
draw her to him, that made him ashamed and ill 
at ease. So the hours sped swiftly. The maiden 
talked little, but the Lady Beckwith had much 
matter for little speech ; she asked Paul many 
questions, and told him something of her own life, 
and how, while the good Sir Harry, her husband, 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 35 

lived, she had been much with the world, but now 
lived a quiet life, " Like a wrinkled apple-tree behind 
a house," she added with a smile, " guarding my 
fruit, till it be plucked from the bough." And she 
went on to say that though she had feared, when 
she entered the quiet life, the days would hang 
heavy, yet there never seemed time enough for all 
the small businesses that she was fain to do. 

When the day began to fall, and the shadows of 
the trees out of the forest began to draw nearer 
across the lawn, Paul rose and said, " Come, I will 
sing you a song of farewell and thanks for this day 
of pleasure," and he made them a cheerful ditty ; 
and so took his leave, the Lady Beckwith saying 
that they would speak of his visit for many days — 
and that she hoped that if his fancy led him again 
through the wood, he would come to them ; " For 
you will find an open door, and a warm hearth, and 
friends who look for you." So Paul went, and 
walked through the low red sunset with a secret 
joy in his heart ; and never had he sung so merrily 
as he sang that night in the hall of the Duke ; so 
that the Duke said smiling that they must often go 
a-hunting, and leave Sir Paul behind, for that seemed 
to fill him to the brim with divine melody. 

Now Paul that night, before he laid him down 
to sleep, stood awhile, and made a prayer in his 
heart. It must be said that as a child he had prayed 
night and morning, in simple words that Mistress 
Alison had taught him, but in the years when he 
was with Mark the custom had died away ; for Mark 
prayed not, and indeed had almost an enmity to 
churches and to priests, saying that they made 



36 PAUL THE MINSTREL 

men bound who would otherwise be free ; and he 
had said to Paul once that he prayed the best who 
lived nobly and generously, and made most perfect 
whatever gift he had ; who was kind and courteous, 
and used all men the same, whether old or young, 
great or little ; adding, " That is my creed, and 
not the creed of the priests — but I would not have 
you take it from me thus — a man may not borrow 
the secret of another's heart, and wear it for his own. 
All faiths are good that make a man live cleanly 
and lovingly and laboriously ; and just as all men 
like not the same music, so all men are not suited 
with the same faith ; we all tend to the same place, 
but by different ways ; and each man should find 
the nearest way for him." Paul, after that, had 
followed his own heart in the matter ; and it led 
him not wholly in the way of the priests, but not 
against them, as it led Mark. Paul took some 
delight in the ordered solemnities of the Church, 
the dark coolness of the arched aisles, the holj^ 
smell — ^he felt there the nearer to God. And to be 
near to God was what Paul desired ; but he gave 
up praying at formal seasons, and spoke with God 
in his heart, as a man might speak to his friend, 
whenever he was moved to speak ; he asked His aid 
before the making of a song ; he told Him when he 
was disheartened, or when he desired what he 
ought not ; he spoke to Him when he had done 
anything of which he was ashamed ; and he told 
Him of his dreams and of his joys. Sometimes he 
would speak thus for half a day together, and feel 
a quiet comfort, like a strong arm round him ; but 
sometimes he would be silent for a long while. 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 37 

Now this night he spoke in his heart to God, and 
told Him of the sweet and beautiful hope that had 
come to him, and asked Him to make known to 
him whether it was His will that he should put forth 
his hand, and gather the flower of the wood — for 
he could not even in his secret heart bring himself 
that night to speak, even to God, directly about 
the maiden ; but, in a kind of soft reverence, he 
used gentle similitudes. And then he leaned from 
his window, and strove to send his spirit out like 
a bird over the sleeping wood, to light upon the 
tower ; and then his thought leapt further, and 
he seemed to see the glimmering maiden chamber 
where she slept, breathing evenly. But even in 
thought this seemed to him too near, as though the 
vision were lacking in that awful reverence, which 
is the herald of love. So he thought that his spirit 
should sit, like a white bird, on the battlement, 
and send out a quiet song. 

And then he fell asleep, and slept dreamlessly till 
the day came in through the casements ; when he 
sprang up, and joy darted into his heart, as when 
a servitor fills a cup to the brim with ros\^ and 
bubbling wine. 

Now that day, and the next, and for several days, 
Paul thought of little else but the house in the 
wood and the maiden that dwelt there. Even 
while he read or wrote, pictures would flash before 
his e^'e. He saw Margaret stand before him, with 
the lute in her hand ; or he would see her as she 
had moved about serving him, or he would see her 
as she had sate to hear him sing, or as she had 
stood at the door as he went forth — and all with 



38 PAUL THE MINSTREL 

a sweet hunger of the heart ; till it seemed to him 
that this was the only true thing that the world 
held, and he would be amazed that he had missed 
it for so long. That he was in the same world with 
her ; that the air that passed over the house in 
the wood was presently borne to the castle ; that 
they two looked upon the same sky, and the same 
stars — ^this was all to him like a delicate madness 
that wrought within his brain. And yet he could 
not bring himself to go thither. The greater his 
longing, the more he felt unable to go without a 
cause ; and yet the thought that there might be 
other men that visited the Lady Beckwith, and had 
more of the courtly and desirable arts of life than he, 
was like a bitter draught — and so the days went 
on ; and never had he made richer music ; it seemed 
to rush from his brain like the water of a full spring. 

A few days after, there was a feast at the castle and 
many were bidden ; and Paul thought in his heart 
that the Lady Beckwith would perhaps be there. 
So he made a very tender song of love to sing, the 
song of a heart that loves and dares not fully speak. 

When the hour drew on for the banquet, he 
attired himself with a care which he half despised, 
and when the great bell of the castle rang, he went 
down his turret stairs with a light step. The 
custom was for the guests to assemble in the great 
hall of the castle ; but they of the Duke's house- 
hold, of whom Paul was one, gathered in a little 
chamber off the hall. Then, when the Duke and 
Duchess with their children came from their rooms, 
they passed through this chamber into the hall, the 
household following. When the Duke entered the 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 39 

hall, the minstrels in the gallery played a merry 
tune, and the guests stood up ; then the Duke 
would go to his place and bow to the guests, the 
household moving to their places ; then the music 
would cease, and the choir sang a grace, all stand- 
ing. Paul's place was an honourable one, but he 
sate with his back to the hall ; and this night, as 
soon as he entered the hall, and while the grace was 
sung, he searched with his eyes up and down the 
great tables, but he could not see her whom he 
desired to see, and the joy died out of his heart. 
Now though the Lords and Knights of the castle 
honoured Paul because he was honoured by the 
Duke, they had little ease with him ; so to-night, 
when Paul took his place, a Knight that sate next 
him, a shrewd and somewhat malicious man, who 
loved the talk of the Court, and turned all things 
into a jest, said, ** How now, Sir Paul ? You en- 
tered to-night full of joy ; but now you are like one 
that had expected to see a welcome guest and saw 
him not." Then Paul was vexed that his thoughts 
should be so easily read, and said with a forced 
smile, " Nay, Sir Edwin, we musical men are the 
slaves of our moods ; there would be no music 
else ; we have not the bold and stubborn hearts of 
warriors born." And at this there was a smile, for 
Sir Edwin was not held to be foremost in warlike 
exercise. But having thus said, Paul never dared 
turn his head. And the banquet seemed a tedious 
and hateful thing to him. 

But at last it wore to an end, and healths had 
been drunk, and grace was sung ; and then they 
withdrew to the Presence Chamber, where the Duke 



40 PAUL THE MINSTREL 

and Duchess sate upon chairs of state under a 
canopy, and the guests sate down on seats and 
benches. And presently the Duke sent courteous 
word to Paul that if he would sing they would gladl}' 
hear him. So Paul rose in his place and made 
obeisance, and then moved to a dais which was set 
at the end of the chamber ; and a page brought 
him his lute. But Paul first made a signal to the 
musicians who were set aloft in a gallery, and they 
played a low descant ; and Paul sang them a war- 
song with all his might, his voice ringing through 
the room. Then, as the voice made an end, there 
was a short silence, such as those who have sung 
or spoken from a full heart best love to hear — for each 
such moment of silence is like a rich jewel of praise — 
and then a loud cry of applause, which was hushed 
in a moment because of the presence of the Duke. 

Then Paul made a bow, and stood carelessly re- 
garding the crowd ; for from long use he felt no 
uneasiness to stand before many eyes ; and just 
as he fell to touching his lute, his eye fell on a group 
in a corner ; the Lady Beckwith sate there, and 
beside her Margaret ; behind whom sate a young 
Knight, Sir Richard de Benoit by name, the fairest 
and goodliest of all in the castle, whom Paul loved 
well ; and he leaned over and said some words in 
the maiden's ear, who looked round sh^dy at him 
with a little smile. 

Then Paul put out all his art, as though to recover 
a thing that he had nearly lost. He struck a sweet 
chord on the lute, and the talk all died away and 
left an utter silence ; and Paul, looking at but one 
face, and as though he spoke but to one ear, sang 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 41 

his song of love. It was like a spell of magic ; men 
and women turned to each other and felt the love 
of their youth rise in their hearts as sweet as ever. 
The Duke where he sate laid a hand upon the 
Duchess' hand and smiled. They that were old, 
and had lost what they loved, were moved to 
weeping — and the young men and maidens looked 
upon the ground, or at the singer, and felt the hot 
blood rise in their cheeks. And Paul, exulting in 
his heart, felt that he swayed the souls of those that 
heard him, as the wind sways a field of wheat, that 
bends all one way before it. Then again came the 
silence, when the voice ceased ; a silence into which 
the last chords of the lute sank, like stones dropped 
into a still water. And Paul bowed again, and 
stepped down from the dais — and then withj'slow 
steps he moved to where the Lady Beckwith sate, 
and bowing to her, took the chair beside her. 

Then came a tumbler and played many agile 
tricks before them ; and then a company of m.um- 
mers, with the heads of birds and beasts, danced 
and sported. But the Lady Beckwith said, " Sir 
Paul, I will tell you a tale. A bird of the forest 
alighted at our window-sill some days ago, and 
sang very sweetly to us — and we spread crumbs 
and made it a little feast ; and it seemed to trust 
us, but presently it spread its wings and flev/ away, 
and it comes not again. Tell us, what shall we 
do to tempt the wild bird back ? " And Paul, 
smiling in her face, said, " Oh, madam, the bird 
will return ; but he leads, maybe, a toilsome life, 
gathering berries, and doing small businesses. The 
birds, which seem so free, live a life of labour ; and 



42 PAUL THE MINSTREL 

they may not always follow their hearts. But be 
sure that your bird knows his friends ; and some 
day, when he has opportunity, he will alight again. 
To him his songs seem but a small gift, a shallow 
twittering that can hardly please." " Nay," said 
the Lady Beckwith, " but this was a nightingale 
that knew the power of song, and could touch all 
hearts except his own ; and thus, finding love so 
simple a thing to win, doubtless holds it light." 
** Nay," said Paul, " he holds it not light ; it is too 
heavy for him ; he knows it too well to trifle with it." 

Then finding that the rest were silent, they too 
were silent. And so they held broken discourse ; 
and ever the young Knight spoke in Margaret's 
ear, so that Paul was much distraught, but dared 
not seem to intervene, or to speak with the maiden, 
when he had held aloof so long. 

Presently the Lady Beckwith said she had a boon 
to ask, and that she would drop her parables. And 
she said that her daughter Helen, that was sick, 
had been very envious of them, because she had 
not heard his songs, but only a soft echo of them 
through the chamber floor. " And perhaps, vSir 
Paul," she said, "if you will not come for friend- 
ship, you will come for mercy ; and sing to my 
poor child, who has but few joys, a song or twain." 
Then Paul's heart danced within him, and he said, 
" I will come to-morrow." And soon after that 
the Duke went out and the guests dispersed ; and 
then Paul greeted the Lady Margaret, and said a 
few words to her ; but he could not please himself 
in what he said ; and that night he slept little, 
partly for thinking of what he might have said : 



i 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 43 

but still more for thinking that he would see her 
on the morrow. 

So when the morning came, Paul went very 
swiftly through the forest to the Isle of Thorns. It 
was now turning fast to winter, and the trees had 
shed their leaves. The forest was all soft and 
brown, and the sky was a pearly grey sheet of high 
cloud ; but a joy as of spring was in Paul's heart, 
and he smiled and sang as he went, though he fell 
at times into sudden silences of wonder and delight. 
When he arrived, the Lady Beckwith greeted him 
very lovingly, and presently led him into a small 
chamber that seemed to be an oratory. Here was 
a little altar very seemly draped, with stools for 
kneeling, and a chair or two. Near the altar, at 
the side, was a little door in the wall behind a hang- 
ing ; the Lady Beckwith pulled the hanging aside, 
and bade Paul to follow ; he found himself in a 
small arched recess, lit by a single window of col- 
oured glass, that was screened from a larger room, 
of which it was a part, by a curtain. The Lady 
Beckwith bade Paul be seated, and passed bej^ond 
the curtain for an instant. The room within 
seemed dark, but there came from it a waft of the 
fragrance of flowers ; and Paul heard low voices 
talking together, and knew that Margaret spake ; 
in a moment she appeared at the entrance, and 
greeted him with a very sweet and simple smile, 
but laid her finger on her lips ; and so slipped back 
into the room again, but left Paul's heart beating 
strangely and fiercely. Then the Lady Beckwith 
returned, and said in a whisper to Paul that it was 
a day of suffering for Helen, and that she could 



44 PAUL THE MINSTREL 

not bear the light. So she seated herself near him, 
and Paul touched his lute, and sang songs, five or 
six, gentle songs of happ}^ untroubled things, like 
the voices of streams that murmur to themselves 
when the woods are all asleep ; and between the 
songs he spoke not, but pla3^ed airily and wistfully 
upon his lute ; and for all that it seemed so simple, 
he had never put more art into what he played and 
sang. And at last he made the music die away to 
a very soft close, like an evening wind that rustles 
away across a woodland, and moves to the shining 
west. And looking at the Lady Beckvv^ith, he saw 
that she had passed, on the wings of song, into old 
forgotten dreams, and sate smiling to herself, her 
eyes brimming with tears. And then he rose, and 
saying that he would not be tedious, put the lute 
aside, and they went out quietly together. And 
the Lady Beckwith took his hand in both her own 
and said, " Sir Paul, you are a great magician — I 
could not believe that you could have so charmed 
an old and sad-hearted woman. You have the key 
of the door of the land of dreams ; and think not 
that I am ungrateful ; that you, for whose songs 
princes contend in vain, should deign to come and 
sing to a maiden that is sick — how shall I repay 
it ? " " Oh, I am richly repaid," said Paul, " the 
guerdon of the singer is the incense of a glad heart 
— ^and you may give me a little love if you can, for 
I am a lonely man." Then they smiled at each 
other, the smile that makes a compact without 
words. 

Then they went down together, and there was a 
simple meal set out ; and they ate together like 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 45 

old and secure friends, speaking little ; but the 
Lady Beckwith told him somewhat of her daughter 
Helen, how she had been fair and strong till her 
fifteenth 3^ear ; and that since that time, for five 
weary years, she had suffered under a strange and 
wasting disease that nothing could amend. " But 
she is patient and cheerful beneath it, or I think my 
heart would break ; — ^but I know,'' she added, and 
her mouth quivered as she spoke, " that she can 
hardly see another spring, and I would have her 
last davs to be sweet. I doubt not," she went on, 
" the good and wise purposes of God, and I think 
that He often sends His bright angels to comfort 
her — for she is never sad — and when you sing as 
you sang just now, I seem to understand, and my 
heart says that it is w^ell." 

While they spoke the Lady Margaret came into 
the room, with a sudden radiance ; and coming to 
Paul she kneeled down beside him^, and kissed his 
hand suddenly, and said, " Helen thanks j-ou, and 
I thank you. Sir Paul, for giving her such jo}^ as 
you could hardly believe." 

There came a kind of mist over Paul's eyes, to 
feel the touch of the lips that he loved so well upon 
his hand ; but at the same time it appeared to him 
like a kind of sin that he who seemed to himself, in 
that moment, so stained and hard, should have 
reverence done him by one so pure. So he raised 
her up, and said, " Nay, this is not meet " ; and he 
would have said many other words that rushed 
together in his mind, but he could not frame them 
right. But presently the Lady Beckwith excused 
herself and went ; and then Paul for a sweet hour 



46 PAUL THE MINSTREL 

sate, and talked low and softly to the maiden, and 
threw such worship into his voice that she was 
amazed. But he said no word of love. And she 
told him of their simple life, and how her sister 
suffered. And then Paul feared to stay longer, and 
went with a mighty and tumultuous joy in his heart. 

Then for many days Paul went thus to the Isle 
of Thorns — and the Lady Margaret threw aside her 
fear of him, and would greet him like a brother. 
Sometimes he would find her waiting for him at 
the gate, and then the air was suddenly full of a 
holy radiance. And the Lady Beckwith, too, began 
to use him like a son ; but the Lady Helen he 
never saw — only once or twice he heard her soft 
voice speak in the dark room. And Paul made 
new songs for her, but all the time' it |was for 
Margaret that he sang. 

And they at the castle wondered why Sir Paul, 
who used formerlv to sit so much in his chamber, 
now went so m.uch abroad. But he guarded his 
secret, and they knew not whither he went ; only 
he saw once, from looks that passed between two 
of the maidens, that they spoke of him ; and this 
in times past might have made him ashamed, but 
now his heart was too high, and he cared not. 

There came a day when Paul, finding himself 
alone with the Lady Beckwith, opened his heart 
suddenly to her ; but he was checked, as it were, 
by a sudden hand, for there came into her face a 
sad and troubled look, as though she blamed herself 
for something. Then she said to him, faltering, 
that she knew not what to say, for she could not 
read her daughter's heart — " and I think, Sir Paul," 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 47 

she added, " that she hath no thought of love — 
love of the sort of which you speak. Nay, the 
maiden loves you well, like a dear brother ; she 
smiles at your approach, and runs to meet you 
when she hears your step at the door " ; and then 
seeing a look of pain and terror in the face of Paul, 
she said, " Nay, dear Paul, I know not. God 
knows how gladly I would have it so, but hearts 
are very strangely made ; yet you shall speak if 
you will, and I will give you my pra3^ers." And 
then she stooped to Paul, and kissed his brow, and 
said, " There is a mother's kiss, for you are the 
son of my heart, whatever befall." 

So presently the maiden came in, and Paul asked 
her to walk a little with him in the garden, and she 
went smiling ; and then he could find no words at 
all to tell her what was in his heart, till she said, 
laughing, that he looked strangely, and that it 
seemed he had nought to say. So Paul took her 
hand, and told her all his love ; and she looked 
upon him, smiling very quietly, neither trembling 
nor amazed, and said that she would be his wife 
if so he willed it, and that it was a great honour ; 
" and then," she added, " you need not go from 
us, but you can sing to Helen every day." Then 
he kissed her ; and there came into his heart a great 
wave of tenderness, and he thanked God very 
humbty for so great a gift. Yet he somehow felt 
in his heart that he was not yet content, and that 
this was not how he had thought it would fall out ; 
but he also told himself that he would yet win 
the maiden's closer love, for he saw that she loved 
not as he loved. Then after a little talk they went 



48 PAUL THE MINSTREL 

together and told the Lady Beckwith, and she 
blessed them ; but Paul could see that neither was 
she content, but that she looked at Margaret with 
a questioning and wondering look. 

Then there followed very sweet days. It was 
soon in the springtime of the year ; the earth was 
awaking softly from her long sleep, and was by 
gentle degrees arraying herself for her summer 
pomp. The primroses put out yellow stars about 
the tree roots ; the hyacinths carpeted the woods 
with blue, and sent their sweet breath down the 
glade ; and Paul felt strange desires stir in his 
heart, and rise like birds upon the air ; and when 
he walked with the Lady Margaret among the 
copses, or rested awhile upon green banks, where 
the birds sang hidden in the thickets, his heart 
made continual melody, and rose in a stream of 
praise to God. But they spoke little of love ; at 
times Paul would try to say something of what 
was in his mind ; but the Lady Margaret heard 
him, sedately smiling, as though she were pleased 
that she could give him this joy, but as though she 
understood not v/hat he said. She loved to hear 
of Paul's life, and the places he had visited. And 
Paul, for all his joy, felt that in his love he was, 
as it were, voyaging on a strange and fair sea alone, 
and as though the maiden stood upon the shore and 
waved her hand to him. When he kissed her or 
took her hand in his own, she yielded to him gently 
and lovingly, like a child ; and it was then that 
Paul felt most alone. But none the less was he 
happy, and day after day was lit for him with a 
golden light. 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 49 



IV 



One day there came a messenger for Paul, and 
brought him news that made him wonder : the 
House of Heritage had fallen, on Mistress Ahson's 
death, to a distant kinsman of her own and of his. 
This man, who was without wife or child, had 
lived there solitary, and it seemed that he was now 
dead ; and he had left in his will that if Sir Paul 
should wish to redeem the house and land for a 
price, he should have the first choice to do so, seeing 
his boyhood had been spent there. Now Paul was 
rich, for he had received many great gifts and had 
spent little ; and there came into his heart a great 
and loving desire to possess the old house. He told 
the Lady Beckwith and Margaret of this, and they 
both advised him to go and see it. So Paul asked 
leave of the Duke, and told him his business. Then 
the Duke said very graciously that Paul had served 
him well, and that he W'Ould buy the house at his 
own charges, and give it to Paul as a gift ; but he 
added that this was a gift for past service, and that 
he would in no way bind Paul ; but he hoped that 
Paul w^ould still abide in the castle, at least for a 
part of the 3'ear, and make music for them. " For 
indeed," said the Duke very ro^^ally, ** it wxre not 
meet that so divine a power should be buried in a 
rustic grange, but it should abide where it can give 
delight. Indeed, Sir Paul, it is not only dehght ! 
but through 3'our music there flow^s a certain holy 
and ennobling grace into the hearts of all who 
attentively hear 3'ou, and tames our wild and 

P 



50 PAUL THE MINSTREL 

brutish natures into something worthier and more 
seemly." Then Paul thanked the Duke verj-^ ten- 
derly, and said that he would not leave him. 

So Paul journeyed alone with an old man-at- 
arms, whom the Duke sent with him for his honour 
and security ; and when he arrived at the place, 
he lodged at the inn. He found the House of 
Heritage very desolate, inhabited only by the 
ancient maid of Mistress Alison, now grown old 
and infirm. So Paul purchased the house and land 
at the Duke's charges, and caused it to be repaired, 
within and without, and hired a gardener to dress 
and keep the ground. He was very impatient to 
be gone, but the matter could not be speedily 
settled ; and though he desired to return to Wrest- 
ing, and to see Margaret, of whom he thought night 
and day, yet he found a great spring of tenderness 
rise up in his heart at the sight of the old rooms, 
in which little had been changed. The thought of 
his lonely and innocent bo^^hood came back to 
him, and he visited all his ancient haunts, the fields, 
the wood, and the down. He thought much, too, 
of Mistress Alison and her wise and gracious ways ; 
indeed, sitting alone, as he often did in the old 
room at evening, it seemed to him almost as though 
she sate and watched him, and was pleased to know 
that he was famous, and happy in his love ; so that 
it appeared to him as though she gave him a bene- 
diction from some far-off and holy place, where 
she abode and was well satisfied. 

Then at last he was able to return ; but he had 
been nearly six weeks away. He had moved into 
the house and lived there ; and it had filled him 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 51 

with a kind of solemn happiness to picture how he 
would some day, when he was free, live there with 
Margaret for his wife ; and perhaps there would be 
children too, making the house sweet with their 
laughter and innocent games — children who should 
look at him with eyes like their mother's. Long 
hours would pass thus while he sate holding a book 
or his lute between his hands, the time streaming 
past in a happy tide of thoughts. 

But the last night was sad, for he had gone early 
to his bed, as he was to start betimes in the morn- 
ing ; and he dreamed that he had gone through 
the wood to the Isle of Thorns, and had seen the 
house stand empt\^ and shuttered close, with no 
signs of life about it. In his dream he went and 
beat upon the door, and heard his knocks echo in 
the hall ; and just as he was about to beat again, 
it was opened to him by an old small woman, that 
looked thin and sad, with grey hair and many 
wrinkles, whom he did not know. He had thrust 
past her, though she seemed to have wished to stay 
him ; and pushing on, had found Margaret sitting 
in the hall, who had looked up at him, and then 
covered her face with her hands, and he had seen 
a look of anguish upon her face. Then the dream 
had slipped from him, and he dreamed again that 
he was in a lonely place, a bleak mountain-top, with 
a wide plain spread out beneath ; and he had 
watched the flight of two white birds, which seemed 
to rise from the rocks near him, and fly swiftly 
awa^^ beating their wings in the waste of air. 

He woke troubled, and found the dawn peeping 
through the chinks of the shutter ; and soon he 



52 PAUL THE MINSTREL 

heard the tramping of horses without, and knew 
that he must rise and go. And the thought of the 
dream dwelt heavily with him ; but presently, 
riding in the cool air, it seemed to him that his 
fears were foolish ; and his love came back to him, 
so that he said the name Margaret over many 
times to himself, like a charm, and sent his thoughts 
forward, imagining how Margaret, newly risen, 
would be moving about the quiet house, perhaps 
expecting him. And then he sang a little to him- 
self, and was pleased to see the old man-at-arms 
smile wearily as he rode beside him. 

Three days after he rode into the Castle of Wrest- 
ing at sundown, and was greeted very lovingly ; 
the Duke would not let him sing that night, though 
Paul said he was willing ; but after dinner he asked 
him many questions of how he had fared. And 
Paul hoped that he might have heard some talk 
of the Lady Margaret. But none spoke of her, and 
he dared not ask. One thing that he noticed was 
that at dinner the young Sir Richard de Benoit sate 
opposite him, looking very pale ; and Paul, more 
than once, looking up suddenly, saw that the Knight 
was regarding him very fixedly, as though he were 
questioning of somewhat ; and that each time Sir 
Richard dropped his eyes as though he were ashamed. 
After dinner was over, and Paul had been dis- 
charged by the Duke, he had gone back into the 
hall to see if he could have speech of vSir Richard, 
and ask if anything ailed him ; but he found him 
not. 

Then on the morrow, as soon as he might, he 
made haste to go down to the Isle of Thorns. As 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 53 

he was crossing a glade, not far from the house, he 
saw to his surprise, far down the glade, a figure 
riding on a horse, who seemed for a moment to be 
Sir Richard himself. He stood awhile to consider, 
and then, going down the glade, he cried out to 
him. Sir Richard, who was on a white horse, drew 
rein, and turned with his hand upon the loins of 
the horse ; and then he turned again, and, urging 
the horse forward, disappeared within the wood. 
There came, as it were, a chill into Paul's heart 
that he should be thus unkindly used ; and he 
vexed his brain to think in what he could have 
offended the Knight ; but he quickly returned to 
his thoughts of love ; so he made haste, and soon 
came down to the place. 

Now, when he came near, he thought for a mo- 
ment of his dream ; and shrank back from stepping 
out of the trees at the corner whence he could see 
the house ; but chiding himself for his vain terrors, 
he went swiftly out, and saw the house stand as 
before, with the trees all delicate green behind it, 
and the smoke ascending quietly from the chimneys. 

Then he made haste ; and — for he was now used 
to enter unbidden — went straight into the house ; 
the hall and the parlours were all empty ; so that 
he called upon the servants ; an old serving-maid 
came forth, and then Paul knew in a moment that 
all was not well. He looked at her for a moment, 
and a question seemed to be choked in his throat ; 
and then he said swiftly, " Is the Lady Beckwith 
within ? " The old serving-maid said gravely, 
" She is with the Lady Helen, who is very sick." 
Then Sir Paul bade her tell the Lady Beckwith that 



54 PAUL THE MINSTREL 

he was in the house ; and as he stood v/aiting, 
there came a kind of shame into his heart, that 
what he had heard was so much less than what he 
had for an instant feared ; and while he strove to 
be more truly sorry, the Lady Beckwith stood before 
him, very pale. She began to speak at once, and 
in a low and hurried voice told him of Helen's ill- 
ness, and how that there was little to hope ; and 
then she put her hand on Paul's arm, and said, 
" My son, why did you leave us ? " adding hastily, 
" Nay, it could not have been otherv/ise." And 
Paul, looking upon her face, divined in some sudden 
way that she had not told him all that was in her 
mind. So he said, " Dear mother, you know the 
cause of that — ^but tell me all, for I see there is 
more behind." Then the Lady Beckwith put her 
face in her hands, and saying, " Yes, dear Paul, 
there is more," fell to weeping secretly. While they 
thus stood together — and Paul was aware of a deadly 
fear that clutched at his heart and made all his 
limbs weak — the Lady Margaret came suddenly 
into the room, looking so pale and worn that Paul 
for a moment did not recognise her. But he put 
out his arms, and took a step towards her ; then 
he saw that she had not known he was in the house ; 
for she turned first red and then very pale, and 
stepped backwards ; and it went to Paul's heart 
like the stabbing of a sharp knife, that she looked 
at him with a look in which there was shame mingled 
with a certain fear. 

Now while Paul stood amazed and almost stupe- 
fied with what he saw, the Lady Beckwith said 
quickly and almost sternly to Margaret, " Go back 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 55 

to Helen — she may not be left alone." Margaret 
slipped from the room ; and the Lady Beckwith 
pointed swiftly to a chair, and herself sate down. 
Then she said, ** Dear Paul, I have dreaded this 
moment and the sight of you for some days — and 
though I should wish to take thought of what I 
am to say to you, and to say it carefully, it makes 
an ill matter worse to dally with it — so I will even 
tell you at once. You must know that some three 
days after you left us, the young Knight Sir Richard 
de Benoit fell from his horse, when riding in the wood 
hard by this house, and was grievously hurt by the 
fall. They carried him in here and we tended him. 
I had much upon my hands, for dear Helen was in 
great suffering ; and so it fell out that Margaret 
was often with the Knight — who, indeed, is a noble 
and generous youth, very pure and innocent of heart 
— ^and oh, Paul, though it pierces my heart to say 
it, he loves her — and I think that she loves him too. 
It is a strange and terrible thing, this love ! it is 
like the sword that the Lord Christ said that He 
came to bring on earth, for it divides loving house- 
holds that were else at one together ; and now I 
must say more — the maiden knew not before what 
love was ; she had read of it in the old books ; and 
when you came into this quiet house, bringing with 
you all the magic of song, and the might of a gentle 
and noble spirit, and offered her love, she took it 
gladly and sweetly, not knowing what it was that 
you gave ; but I have watched my child from her 
youth up, and the love that she gave you was the 
love that she would have given to a brother — she 
admired you and reverenced you. She knew that 



56 PAUL THE MINSTREL 

maidens were asked and given in marriage, and she 
took your love, as a child might take a rich jewel, 
and love the giver of it. And, indeed, she would 
have wedded you, and might have learned to love 
you in the other way. But God willed it other- 
wise ; and seeing the young Knight, it was as 
though a door was opened in her spirit, and she 
came out into another place. I am sure that no 
word of love has passed between them ; but it has 
leaped from heart to heart like a swift fire ; and all 
this I saw too late ; but seeing it, I told Sir Richard 
how matters stood ; and he is an honourable youth ; 
for from that moment he sought how he might be 
taken hence, and made reasons to see no more of 
the maid. But his misery I could see ; and she is 
no less miserable ; for she has a very pure and 
simple spirit, and has fought a hard conflict with 
herself ; yet will she hold to her word. 

** And now, dear Paul, judge between us, for the 
matter lies in your hands. She is yours, if you 
claim her ; but her heart cannot be yours awhile, 
though you may win it yet. It is true that both 
kaights and maidens have wedded, loving another ; 
yet they have learned to love each other, and have 
lived comfortably and happily ; but whether, 
knowing what I have been forced to tell you, you 
can be content that things should be as before, I 
know not." 

Then the Lady Beckwith made a pause, and beat 
her hands together, watching Paul's face ; Paul 
sate very still and pale, all the light gone out of 
his eyes, with his lips pressed close together. And 
at the sight of him the tears came into Lady Beck- 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 57 

with's eyes, and she could not stay them. And 
Paul, looking darkly on her, strove to pity her, but 
could not ; and clasping the arms of his chair, said 
hoarsely, ' ' I cannot let her go . " So they sate awhile 
in silence ; and then Paul rose and said, " Dear 
lady, you have done well to tell me this — I know 
deep down in my heart what a brave and noble 
thing you have done : but I cannot yet believe it — I 
will see the Lady Margaret and question her of the 
matter." Then the lady said, " Nay, dear Paul, 
you will not — you think that you would do so ; 
but you could not speak with her face to face of 
such a matter, and she could not answer you. You 
must think of it alone, and to-morrow you must tell 
me what you decide ; and whichever way you 
decide it, I will help you as far as I can." And 
then she said, " You will pity me a Httle, dear Paul, 
for I had rather have had a hand cut off than have 
spoken with you thus." And these simple words 
brought Paul a little to himself, and he rose from 
his place and kissed the Lady Beckwith's hand, and 
said, " Dear mother, you have done well ; but my 
sorrow is greater than I can bear." And at that 
the Lady Beckwith wept afresh ; but Paul went 
out in a stony silence, hardly knowing what he 
did. 

Then it seemed to Paul as though he went down 
into deep waters indeed, which passed cold and 
silent, in horror and bitterness, over his soul. He 
did not contend or cry out ; but he knew that the 
light had fallen out of his life, and had left him 
dark and dead. 

So he went slowlv back to the castle through the 



58 PAUL THE MINSTREL 

wood, hating his hfe and all that he was ; once or 
twice he felt a kind of passion rise within him, and 
he said to himself, " She is pledged to me, and she 
shall be mine." And then there smote upon him 
the thought that in thinking thus he was rather 
brute than man. And he fell at last into an agon}/ 
of prayer that God would lead him to the light, and 
show him what he should do. When he reached 
the castle he put a strong constraint upon himself ; 
he went down to the hall ; he even sang ; but it 
was like a dream ; he seemed to be out of the body, 
and as it were to see himself standing, and to hear 
the words falling from his own lips. The Duke 
courteously praised him, and said that he was well 
content to hear his minstrel again. 

As he left the hall, he passed through a little ante- 
room, that was hung with arras, on the way to his 
chamber ; and there he saw sitting on a bench, 
close to the door that led to the turret stair, the 
young Knight, Sir Richard ; and there rose in his 
heart a passion of anger, so strong that he felt as 
though a hand were laid upon his heart, crushing 
it. And he stood still, and looked upon the Knight, 
who raised so pale and haggard a face upon him, 
that Paul, in spite of his own misery, saw before 
him a soul as much or more vexed than his own ; 
and then the anger died out of his heart, and left 
in him only the sense of the bitter fellowship of 
suffering ; the Knight rose to his feet, and they 
stood for a moment looking at each other ; and 
then the Knight said, pale to the lips, " Sir Paul, 
we are glad to welcome you back — I have heard of 
the Duke's gift, and rejoice that your inheritance 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 59 

should thus return to you." And Paul bowed and 
said, " Ay, it is a great gift ; but it seems that in 
finding it I have lost a greater." And then, seeing 
the Knight grow paler still, if that were possible, 
he said, " Sir Richard, let me tell you a parable ; 
there was a little bird of the wood that came to my 
window, and made me glad — so that I thought of 
no other thing but m}^ wild bird, that trusted me : 
and while I was absent, one hath whispered it away, 
and it will not return." And Sir Richard said, 
" Nay, Sir Paul, you are in this unjust. What if 
the wild bird hath seen its mate ? And, for you 
know not the other side of the parable, its mate 
hath hid itself in the wood, and the wild bird will 
return to you, if you bid it come." 

Then Sir Paul, knowing that the Knight had 
done worthily and like a true knight, said, " Sir 
Richard, I am unjust ; but you v.dll pardon me, for 
my heart is very sore." And so Paul passed on to 
his chamber ; and that night was a very bitter one, 
for he went down into the sad valley into which 
men must needs descend, and he saw no light there. 
And once in the night he rose dry-eyed and fevered 
from his bed, and twitching the curtain aside, saw 
the forest lie sleeping in the cold light of the moon ; 
and his thought went out to the Isle of Thorns, 
and he saw the four hearts that were made desolate ; 
and he questioned in his heart why God had made 
the hard and grievous thing that men call love. 

Then he went back and fell into a sort of weary 
sleep ; and waking therefrom, he felt a strange and 
terrible blackness seize upon his spirit, so that he 
could hear his own heart beat furious and thick in 



6o PAUL THE MINSTREL 

the darkness ; and he prayed that God would re- 
lease him from the prison of the world. But while 
he lay, he heard the feet of a horse clatter on 
the pavement, it being now near the dawn ; and 
presently there came a page fumbling to the 
door, who bore a letter from the Lady Beckwith, 
and it ran : — 

" I would not write to you thus, dear Paul, unless 
my need were urgent ; hut the dear Helen is near her 
end, and has prayed me many times that, if it were 
possible, you should come and sing to her — for she 
fears to go into the dark, and says that your voice 
can give her strength and hope. Now if it be possible, 
come ; but if you say nay to my messenger, I shall 
well understand it. But the dear one hath done you 
no hurt, and for the love of the God who made us, 
come and comfort us — from her who loves you as a 
son, these.^^ 

Then Paul when he had read, pondered for 
awhile ; and then he said to the page, " Say that I 
will come." So he arrayed himself with haste, and 
went swiftly through the silent wood, looking neither 
to left or to right, but only to the path at his feet. 
And presently he came to the Isle of Thorns ; it 
lay in a sort of low silver mist, the house pushing 
through it, as a rock out of the sea. And then a 
sudden chill came over Paul, and the very marrow 
of his bones shuddered ; for he knew in his heart 
that this was nothing but the presaging of death ; 
and he thought that the dreadful angel stood wait- 
ing at the door, and that presently the spirit of 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 6i 

one that lay within must arise, leaving the poor 
body behind, and go with the angel. 

In the high chamber where Helen lay burnt a 
light behind a curtain ; and Paul saw a form pass 
slowly to and fro. And he would fain have pitied 
the two who must lose her whom they loved ; but 
there passed over his spirit a sort of bitter wind ; 
and he could feel no pity for any soul but his own, 
and his heart was dry as dust ; he felt in his mind 
nothing but a kind of dumb wonder as to why he 
had troubled himself to come. 

There must have been, he saw, a servant bidden 
to await his coming, because, as his feet sounded 
on the flags, the door was opened to him ; and in a 
moment he was within the hall. At the well-known 
sights and scents of the place, the scene of his 
greatest happiness, the old aching came back into 
his stony heart, and grief, that was like a sharp 
sword, thrust through him. Suddenly, as he stood, 
a door opened, and Margaret came into the hall ; 
she saw him in a moment ; and he divined that 
she had not known he w^as within, but had meant 
only to pass through ; for she stopped short as 
though irresolute, and looked at him with a wild 
and imploring gaze, like a forest thing caught in a 
trap. 

In a moment there flow^ed into Paul's heart a 
great pity and tenderness, and a strength so won- 
derful that he knew it was not his own, but the 
immortal strength of God. And he stepped for- 
ward, forgetting all his own pain and misery, and 
said, " Margaret, dear one, dear sister, what is the 
shadow that hath fallen between us at this time ? 



62 PAUL THE MINSTREL 

I would not," he went on, " speak of ourselves at 
such an hour as this ; but I see that there is some- 
what — we minstrels have a power to look in the 
heart of those we love — and I think it is this — that 
you can love me, dear one, as a brother, and not 
as a lover. Well, I am content, and so it shall be. 
I love you too well, little one, to desire any love 
but what you can give me — so brother and sister 
we will be." Then he saw a light come into her 
face, and she murmured words of sorrow that he 
could not hear ; but he put his arm about her as 
a brother might, and kissed her cheek. And then 
she put her hands upon his shoulder, and her face 
upon them, and broke out into a passion of weeping. 
And Paul, saying " Even so," kissed and com- 
forted her, as one might comfort a child, till she 
looked up, as if to inquire somewhat of him. And 
he said smiling, " So this is my dear sister indeed — 
— yes, I will be content with that — and now take 
me to the dear Helen, that I may see if my art can 
comfort her." Then it was very sweet to Paul's 
sore heart that she drew her arm within his own 
and led him up from the room. Then there came 
in haste the Lady Beckwith down to meet them, 
with a look of pain upon her face ; and Paul said, 
still smiling, " We are brother and sister hence- 
forth." Then the Lady Beckwith smiled too out of 
her grief and said, " Oh, it is well." 

Then they passed together through the oratory 
and entered the chamber of death. And then Paul 
saw a heavenly sight. The room was a large one, 
dim and dark. In a chair near the fire, all in white, 
sate a maiden like a lily — so frail and delicate that 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 63 

she seemed like a pure spirit, not a thing of earth. 

She sate with a hand upraised between her and the 

fire ; and when Paul came in, she looked at him 

with a smile in which appeared nothing but a noble 

patience, as though she had waited long ; but she 

did not speak. Then they drew a chair for Paul, 

and he took his lute, and sang soft and low, a song 

of one who sinks into sweet dreams, when the 

sounds of da}' are hushed — and presently he made 

an end. Then she made a sign that Paul should 

approach, and he went to her, and kneeled beside 

her, and kissed her hand. And Margaret came out 

of the dark, and put her hand on Paul's shoulder 

saying, " This is our brother." And Helen smiled 

in Paul's face — and something, a kind of heaventy 

peace and love, seemed to pass from her ej^es and 

settle in Paul's heart ; and it was told him in that 

hour, he knew not how, that this was his bride whom 

he had loved, and that he had loved Margaret for 

her sake ; and that moment seemed to Paul to be 

worth all his life that had gone before, and all that 

should go after. So he knelt in the silence ; and 

then in a m.oment, he knew not where or whence, 

the whole air seemed full of a heavenly nmsic about 

them, such music as he had never dreamed of, the 

very soul and essence of the m.usic of earth. But 

Helen laid her head back, and, smiling still, she 

died. And Paul laid her hand down. 

Then without a word he rose, and went from the 
chamber ; and he stepped out into the garden, and 
paced there wondering ; he saw the trees stand 
silent in their sleep, and the flowers like stars in 
their dewy beds. And he knew that God was very 



64 PAUL THE MINSTREL 

near him ; he put all his burdens and sorrows, his 
art, and all himself within the mighty hands ; and 
he knew that he could never doubt again of the 
eternal goodness and the faithful tender love of 
the Father. And all the while the dawn slowly 
brightened over the wood, and came up very slowly 
and graciously out of the east. Then Paul gave 
word that he must return to the castle, but would 
come back soon. And as he mounted the steps, he 
saw that there was a man pacing on the terrace 
above, and knew that it was the Knight Richard, 
whom he sought. So he went up on the terrace, 
and there he saw the young Knight looking out 
over the forest ; Paul went softly up to him and laid 
his hand upon his shoulder, and the Knight turned 
upon him a haggard and restless eye. Then Paul 
said, " Sir Richard, I come from the Isle of Thorns 
— but I have more to say to you. You are a noble 
Knight and have done very worthily — and I yield 
to you with all my heart the dear Margaret, for we 
are brother and sister, and nought else, now and 
henceforth." Then Sir Richard, as though he 
hardly heard him aright, stood looking upon his 
face ; and Paul took his hand very gently in both 
his own, and said, " Yes, it is even so — ^and we will 
be brothers too." Then he went within the castle 
— ^and lying down in his chamber he slept peace- 
fully Hke a little child. 

V 

Many years have passed since that day. First Sir 
Richard wedded the Lady Margaret, and dwelt at 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 65 

the Isle of Thorns. A boy was born to them, whom 
they named Paul, and a daughter whom they called 
Helen. And Paul was much with them, and had 
great content. He made, men said, sweeter music 
than ever he had done, in those days. Then the 
Duke died ; and Paul, though his skill failed not, 
and though the King himself would have had him 
to his Court, wxnt back to the House of Heritage, 
and there dwelt alone, a grave and kindly man, 
very simple of speech, and loving to walk and sit 
alone. And Sir Richard and the Lady Margaret 
bought an estate hard by and dwelt there. 

Now Paul would make no more music, save that 
he sometimes played a little on the lute for the 
pleasure of the Lady Margaret ; but he took into 
his house a boy whom he taught the art ; and when 
he was trained and gone into the world, to make 
music of his own, Paul took another — so that as 
the years went on, he had sent out a number of his 
disciples to be minstrels ; so his art was not lost ; 
and one of these, who was a very gracious child 
named Percival, he loved better than the rest, be- 
cause he saw in him that he had a love for the art 
more than for all the rewards of art. And once 
when they sate together, the boy Percival said, 
'* Dear sir, may I ask you a question ? " "A dozen, 
if it be your will," said Paul, smiling ; " but, dear 
child, I know not if I can answer it.'' Then the 
boy said, ** Why do you not make more music, dear 
sir ? for it seems to me like a well that holds its 
waters close and deep, and will not give themi forth." 
Then Paul said, smiling, " Nay, I have given men 
music of the best. But there are two reasons why 

E 



66 PAUL THE MINSTREL 

I make no more ; and I will tell you them, if \^ou 
can understand them. The first is that many years 
ago I heard a music that shamed me ; and that 
sealed the well." Then the boy said, musing, " Tell 
me the name of the musician, dear Sir Paul, for I 
have heard that you were ever the first." Then 
Paul said, "Nay, I know not the name of the 
maker of it." Then the boy said, smiling, " Then, 
dear sir, it must have been the music of the angels." 
And Paul said, " Ay, it was that." Then the boy 
was silent, and sate in awe, v/hile Paul mused, 
touching his lute softly. Then he roused himself 
and said, " And the second reason, dear child, is 
this. There comes a time to all that make — 
whether it be books or music or pictures — when 
they can make no new thing, but go on in the old 
manner, working ^vith the fingers of age the dreams 
of youth. And to me this seems as it were a pro- 
fane and unholy thing, that a man should use so 
divine an art thus unworthily ; it is as though a 
host should set stale wine before his guests, and put 
into it some drug which should deceive their taste ; 
and I think that those who do this do it for two 
reasons : either they hanker for the praise thereof, 
and cannot do without the honour — and that is 
unworthy — or they do it because they have formed 
the habit of it, and have nought to fill their vacant 
hours — and that is unworthy too. So hearing the 
divine music of which I spoke but now, I knew that 
I could attain no further ; and that there v/as a 
sweet plenty of music in the hand of God, and that 
He would give it as men needed it ; but that my own 
work was done. For each man must decide for 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 67 

himself when to make an end. And further, dear 
child, mark this ! The peril for us and for all that 
follow art is to grow so much absorbed in our handi- 
work, so vain of it, that we think there is nought 
else in the world. Into that error I fell, and therein 
abode. But we are in this world like little children 
at school. God has many fair things to teach us, 
but we grow to love our play, and to think of nought 
else, so that the holy lessons fall on unheeding ears ; 
but now I have put aside my play, and sit awhile 
listening to the voice of God, and to all that He may 
teach me ; and the lesson is hard to spell ; but I 
wait upon Him. humbly and quietly, till He call me 
hence. And now we have talked enough, and we 
will go back to our music ; and you shall play me 
that passage over, for you. played it not deftly 
enough before." 

Now it happened that a few days later Paul in 
his sleep dreamed a dream ; and when he woke, he 
could scarce contain his joy ; and the boy Percival, 
seeing him. in the m.orning, marvelled at the radi- 
ance that appeared in his face ; and a little later 
Paul bade him go across the fields to the Lady 
Margaret's house, and to bid her comiC to him, if 
she would, for he had something that he must tell 
her, and he might not go abroad. So Percival told 
the Lady Margaret ; and she wondered at the 
message, and asked if Sir Paul was sick. And the 
boy said, " No, I never saw him so full of joy — so 
that I am afraid." 

Then the Lady Margaret went to the House of 
Heritage ; and Paul came to greet her at the door, 
and brought her in, and sate for awhile in silence, 



68 PAUL THE MINSTREL 

looking on her face. The Lady Margaret was now 
a very comely and sedate lady, and had held her 
son's child in her arms ; and Paul was a grey-haired 
man ; yet in his eyes she was still the maiden he 
had known. Then Paul, speaking very softly, said, 
" Dear Margaret, I have bidden you come hither, 
for I think I am called hence ; and when I depart, 
and I know not when it may be, I would close my 
eyes in the dear house where I was nurtured." 
Then she looked at him with a sudden fear, but he 
went on, " Dear one, I have dreamed very oft of 
late of Helen — she stands smiling in a glory, and 
looks upon me. But this last night I saw more. 
I know not if I slept or waked, but I heard a high 
and heavenly music ; and then I saw Helen stand, 
but she stood not alone ; she held by the hand a 
child, who smiled upon me ; and the child was 
like herself ; but I presently discerned that the child 
had a look of myself as well ; and she loosed the 
child's hand from her own, and the child ran to 
me and kissed me ; and Helen seemed to beckon 
me ; and then I passed into sleep again. But now 
I see the truth. The love that I bear her hath 
begotten, I think, a child of the spirit that hath 
never known a mortal birth ; and the twain wait 
for me." And Margaret, knowing not what to say, 
but feehng that he had seen somewhat high and 
heavenly, sate in silence ; and presently Paul, 
breaking out of a muse, began to talk of the sweet 
days of their youth, and of the tender mercies of 
God. But while he spoke, he suddenly broke off, 
and held up his hand ; and there came a waft of 
music upon the air. And Paul smiled like a tired 



PAUL THE MINSTREL 69 

child, and lay back in his chair ; and as he did so 
a string of the lute that lay beside him broke with 
a sweet sharp sound. And the Lady Margaret fell 
upon her knees beside him, and took his hand ; 
and then she seemed to see a cloudy gate, and two 
that stood together — a fair woman and a child ; 
and up to the gate, out of a cloud, came swiftly a 
man, like one that reaches his home at last ; and 
the three went in at the gate together, hand in 
hand ; — and then the music came once again, and 
died upon the air. 



THE ISLES OF SUNSET 

About midway between the two horns of the bay, 
the Isles of Sunset pierced the sea. There was deep 
blue water all around them, and the sharp and 
fretted pinnacles of rock rose steeply up to heaven. 
The top of the largest was blunt, and covered with 
a little carpet of grass and sea-herbs. The rest 
were nought but cruel spires, on which no foot but 
that of sea-birds could go. At one place there was 
a small creek, into which a boat might be thrust, 
but only when the sea was calm ; and near the 
top of the rock, just over this, was the dark mouth 
of a little cave. 

The ba}^ in which the Isles lay was quite deserted ; 
the moorland came to the edge of the cliffs, and 
through a steep and rocky ra\dne, the sides of 
which were overgrown with ferns and low trees, all 
brushed landward by the fierce winds, a stream 
fell hoarsely to the sea, through deep rock-pools. 
The only living things there were the wild birds, 
the moor fowl in the heather, hawks that built in 
the rock face, and pigeons that made their nest in 
hollow places. Sometimes a stag pacing slowly on 
the cliff-top would look over, but that was seldom. 

Yet on these desolate and fearful rocks there 
dwelt a man, a hermit named David. He had 
grown up as a fisher-boy in the neighbouring village 

70 



THE ISLES OF SUNSET 71 

— an awkward silent boy with large eyes which 
looked as though they were full of inward dreams. 
The people of the place were Christians after a sort, 
though it was but seldom that a priest came near 
them ; and then only b}/ sea, for there was no road 
to the place. But David as a boy had heard a 
little of the Lord Christ, and of the bitter sacrifice 
He made for men ; and there grew up in his heart 
a great desire to serve Him, and he prayed much 
in his heart to the Lord, that He would show him 
what he might do. He had no parents living. 
His mother was long dead, and his father had been 
drowned at sea. He lived in the house of his uncle, 
a poor fisherman with an angry temper, where he 
fared very hardty ; for there were many mouths 
to feed, and the worst fell to the least akin. But 
he grew up handy and active, with strong limbs 
and a sure head ; and he was well worth his victual, 
for he was a good fisherman, patient of wind and 
rain ; and he could scale the cliff in places where 
none other dared go, and bring down the eggs and 
feathers of the sea-birds. So they had much use 
of him, and gave him but little love in return. 
When he was free of work, the boy loved to wander 
alone, and he would lie on the heather in the warm 
sun, with his face to the ground, drinking in the 
fragrant breath of the earth, and praying earnestly 
in his heart to the Lord, who had made the earth 
so fair and the sea so terrible. When he came to 
man's estate, he had thoughts of making a home 
of his own, but his uncle seemed to need him — so 
he lingered on, doing as he was bid, ver}/ silent, 
but full of his own thoughts, and sure that the 



72 THE ISLES OF SUNSET 

Lord would call him when He had need of him ; 
one by one the children of the familj^ grew up and 
went their ways ; then his uncle's wife died, and 
then at last one day, when he Vvas out fishing with 
his uncle, there came a squall and they beat for 
home. But the boat was overset and his uncle 
was drowned ; and David himself was cast ashore 
in a wonderful manner, and found himself all alone. 
Now while he doubted what he should do, he 
dreamed a dream that wrought powerfully in his 
mind. He thought that he was walking in the 
dusk beside the sea, which was running very high, 
when he saw a light drawing near to him over the 
waves. It was not like the light of a lantern, but 
a diffused and pale light, like the moon labouring 
in a cloud. The sea began to abate its violence, 
and then David saw a figure coming to him, walk- 
ing, it seemed, upon the water as upon dry land, 
sometimes lower, sometimes higher, as the waves 
ran high or low. He stopped in a great wonder to 
watch the approach of the figure, and he saw that 
it was that of a young man, going very slowly and 
tranquilly, and looking about him with a gentle 
and smiling air of command. All about him was 
a light, the source of which David could not see, 
but he seemed like a man walking in the light of 
an open window, when all around is dark. As he 
came near, David saw that he was clad in a rough 
tunic of some dark stuff, which was girt up with a 
girdle at the waist. His head and his feet were 
bare. Yet though he seemed but poorly clad, he 
had the carriage of a great prince, whose power 
none would willingly question. But the strangest 



THE ISLES OF SUNSET 73 

thing was that the sea grew calm before his feet, 
and though the wind was blowing fiercely, yet it 
did not stir the hair, which fell somewhat long on 
his shoulders, or so much as ruffle his robe. And 
then there came into David's head a verse of Scrip- 
ture where it says, " What manner of man is this, 
that even the winds and the sea obey him?" And 
then the answer came suddenly into David's mind, 
and he knelt down where he was upon the beach, 
and waited in a great and silent awe ; and presently 
that One drew near, and in some way that David 
did not understand, for he used no form of speech, 
his eyes made question of David's soul, and seemed 
to read its depths. And then at last He spoke in 
words that He had before used to a fisherman 
beside another sea, and said very softl}^ ** Follow 
Me." But He said not how He should be followed ; 
and presently He seemed to depart in a shining 
track across the sea, till the light that went with 
Him sank like a star upon the verge. Then in his 
dream David was troubled, and knew not how to 
follow ; till he thought that it might be given him, 
as it was given once to Peter, to walk dry-shod 
over the depth ; but when he set foot upon the 
water there broke so furious a wave at him, that he 
knew not how to follow. So he went back and 
kneeled upon the sand, and said aloud in his doubt, 
" What shall I do. Lord ? " and as the words 
sounded on his tongue he awoke. 

Then all that day he pondered how he should 
find the Lord ; for he knew that though he had a 
hope in his heart, and though he leaned much upon 
God, yet he had not wholly found Him yet. God 



74 THE ISLES OF SUNSET 

was sometimes with him and near to him, but some- 
times far withdrawn ; and then, for he was a very 
simple man, he said to himself, " I will give myself 
wholly to the search for my Lord. I will live soli- 
tary, and I will fix my mind upon Him " ; for 
he thought within himself that his hard hfe, and 
the cares of the household in which he had dwelt, 
had been what had perhaps kept him outside ; 
and therefore he thought that God had taken these 
cares away from him. And so he made up his 
mind. 

Then he cast about where he had best dwell ; 
and he thought of the Isles of Sunset as a lonely 
place, where he might live and not be disturbed. 
There was the little cave high up in the rock-face, 
looking towards the land, to which he had once 
scrambled up. This would give him shelter ; and 
there were moreover some small patches of earth, 
near the base of the rock, where he could grow a 
few herbs and a little corn. He had some money 
of his own, which would keep him until his garden 
was grown up ; and he could fish, he thought, from 
the rocks, and find shell-fish and other creatures of. 
the sea, which would give him meat. 

So the next day he bought a few tools that he 
thought he would need, and rowed all over when 
it was dusk. He put his small stores in a cave by 
the water's edge. The day after, he went and 
made a few farewells ; he told no one where he 
was going ; but it pleased him to find a httle love 
for him in the hearts of some. One parting was a 
strangely sore one : there was an old and poor 
woman that lived very meanly in the place, who 



THE ISLES OF SUNSET 75 

had an only granddaughter, a little maid. These 
two he loved very much, and had often done them 
small kindnesses. He kept this good-bye to the 
last, and went to the house after sundown. The 
old wonian bade him sit down, and asked him what 
he meant to do, nov/ that he was alone. " I am 
going awa}^ mother," he said gently. The child, 
hearing this, came over the room from where she 
sate, and said to him, " No, David, do not go av/ay." 
" Yes, dear child," he said, " I must even go." 
Then she said, " But where wall you go ? May I 
not come to see you sometimes ? " and she put her 
small arms round his neck, and laid her cheek to 
his. Then David's heart was very full of love, and 
he said, smiling, and with his arm round the child, 
" Dear one, I must not say where I am going — and 
it is a rough place, too, not fit for such tender little 
folk as you ; but, if I can, I will come again and 
see you." Then the old grandmother, looking upon 
him ver}^ gravely, said, " Tell me what is in your 
mind." But he said, " Nay, mother, do not ask 
me ; I am going to a place that is near and yet 
far ; and I am going to seek for one whom I knov/ 
not and yet know ; and the way is long and dark." 
Then she forbore to ask him more, and fell to pon- 
dering sadly ; so after they had sate awhile, he rose 
up and loosed the child's arms from him, kissing 
her ; and the tears stood in his eyes ; and he 
thought in himself that God was very wise ; for if 
he had had a home of his own, and children whom 
he loved, he could never have found it in his heart 
to leave them. So he went out. 
Then he climbed up the steep path that led to 



76 THE ISLES OF SUNSET 

the downs, and so to the bay where the Isles lay. 
And just as he reached the top, the moon ran out 
from a long bank of cloud ; and he saw the village 
lie beneath him, very peaceful in the moonlight ; 
there were lights in some of the windows ; the roofs 
were silvered in the clear radiance of the moon, 
and the shadows lay dark between. He could see 
the little streets, every inch of which he knew, and 
the port below. He could see the coast stretch 
away to the east, headland after headland, growing 
fainter ; and the great spaces of the sea, with the 
moon glittering on the waves. There was a holy 
and solemn peace about it all ; and though his life 
had not been a happy one there, he knew in a 
flash that the place was very dear to his heart, and 
he said a prayer to God, that He would guard and 
cherish the village and those that dwelt there. 
Then he turned, and went on to the downs ; and 
presently descended by a steep path to the sea, 
through the thickets. He took off his clothes, and 
tied them in a pack on his back ; and then he 
stepped quietly into the bright water, which lapped 
very softly against the shore, a little wave every 
now and then falling gently, followed by a long 
rustling of the water on the sand, and a silence till 
the next wave fell. He waded on till he could 
s^\dm, and then struck out to where the Isles stood, 
all sharp and bright in the moon. He swam with 
long quiet strokes, hearing the water ripple past ; 
and soon the great crags loomed out above him, 
and he heard the waves fall among their rocky 
coves. At last he felt the ground beneath his feet ; 
and coming out of the water he dressed himself, 



THE ISLES OF SUNSET 77 

and then — for he would not venture on the diffs 
in the uncertain hght — gathering up some dried 
weeds of the sea, he made a pillow for his head and 
slept, in a wonderful peace of mind, until the moon 
set ; and not long after there came a pale light over 
the sea in the east, brightening slowly, until at 
last the sun, like a fiery ball, broke upwards from 
the sea ; and it was day. 

Now when David awoke in the broad daylight, 
he found himself full of a great joy and peace. He 
seemed, as it v/ere, to have leaped over a wide 
ditch, and to see the world across it. Now he was 
alone with God, and he had put all the old, mean, 
hateful life away from him. It did not even so 
much as peep into his mind that he would have to 
endure many hardships of body, rain, and chilly 
winds, a bed of rock, and fare both hard and scanty. 
This was not what had troubled him in the old 
days. What had vexed his heart had been unclean 
words and deeds, greediness, hardness, cruel taunts, 
the lack of love, and the meanness and baseness of 
the petty life. All that was behind him now ; he 
felt free and strong, and while he moved about to 
spy out his new kingdom, he sang loudly to himself 
a song of praise. The place pleased him mightily ; 
over his head ran up the cliff with its stony preci- 
pices and dizzy ledges. The lower rocks all fringed 
with weeds, like sea-beasts with rough hair, stood 
out black from the deep blue water that lay round 
the rocks. He loved to hear the heavy plunge of 
the great waves around his bastions, the thin cries 
of the sea-birds that sailed about the precipice, or 
that lit on their airy perches. Everywhere was a 



78 THE ISLES OF SUNSET 

brisk sharp scent of the sea, and the fresh breeze, 
most unUke the close sour smell of the little houses. 
He felt himself free and strong and clean, and he 
thought of all the things he would say to God in 
the pleasant solitude, and how he would hear the 
low and far-off voice of the Father speaking gently 
with his soul. 

His first care was to find the cave that was to 
shelter him. He spent the day in climbing ver}^ 
carefully and lightly all over the face of the rock. 
Never had he known his hand so strong, or his head 
so sure. He sate for a time on a little ledge, to 
which he had climbed on the crag face, and he 
feasted his e^xs upon the sight of the great cliffs of 
the mainland that ran opposite him^, to left and 
right, in a wide half-circle. His e3xs dwelt with 
pleasure upon the high sloping shoulders of rock, 
on which the sun now shone very peacefully, the 
strip of moorland at the top, the brushwood grow- 
ing in the sloping coves, the clean shingle at the 
base of the rocks, and the blue sky over all. That 
was the v/orld as God had made it, and as He in- 
tended it to be ; it was only m.en who made it evil, 
huddling together in their small and filthy dens, so 
intent on their little ugly lives, their food and 
drink and v/icked wa3's. 

Presently he found the cave-mouth, and noted in 
his mind the best way thither. The cave seemed 
to him a very sweet place ; the mouth was all 
fringed with little ferns ; inside it was dry and 
clean ; and in a few hours he had disposed all his 
small goods within it. There was a low slope, on 
one side of the rocks, where the fern grew plenti- 



THE ISLES OF SUNSET 79 

fully. He gathered great armfuls of the dry red 
stalks, and made himself a rustling bed. So the 
day wore pleasantly away. One of his cares was 
to find water ; but here it seemed that God blessed 
him very instantly, for he found a place near the 
sea, where a little spring soaked cool out of the 
rock, with a pleasant carpet of moss and yellow 
flowers. He found, too, some beds of shell-fish, 
which he saw would give him food and bait for his 
fishing. So about sundown he cast a line from 
the end of the rocks and presently caught a fish, 
a ling, which lives round rocky shores. This he 
broiled at a small fire of driftwood, for he had 
brought tinder with him ; and it pleased him to 
think of the meal that the Apostles took with the 
risen Christ, a meal which He had made for them, 
and to which He Himself called them ; for that, 
too, was a broiled fish, and eaten by the edge of 
the sea. Also he ate a little of the bread he had 
brought with him ; and with it some of a brisk 
juicy herb, called samphire, that sprouted richly in 
the cliff, which gave his meat an aromatic savour ; 
and with a drink of fresh spring water he dined 
well, and was content ; then he clim.bed within the 
cave, and fell asleep to the sound of the wind 
buffeting in the cliff, and the fall of great waves 
on the sea beaches. 

Now I might make a book of all the things that 
David savv^ and did on the islands, but they were 
mostly simple and humble things. He fared very 
hard, but though he often wondered how he would 
find food for the next day, it always cam.e to him ; 
and he kept his health in a way which seemed to 



8o THE ISLES OF SUNSET 

him to be marvellous ; indeed he seemed to himself 
to be both stronger in body and lighter in spirit 
than he had ever been before. He both saw and 
heard things that he could not explain. There 
were sounds the nature of which he could not 
divine ; on certain days there was a far-off boom- 
ing, even when the waves seemed still ; at times, 
too, there was a low musical note in the air, like 
the throbbing of a tense string of metal ; once 
or twice he heard a sound like soft singing, and 
wondered in his heart what creature of the sea it 
might be that uttered it. On stormy nights there 
were sad moans and cries, and he often thought 
that there were strange and unseen creatures about 
him, who hid themselves from sight, but whose 
voices he certainly heard ; but he was never afraid. 
One night he saw a very beautiful thing ; it had 
been a still day, but there was an anxious sound in 
the wind which he knew portended a storm ; he 
was strangely restless on such days, and woke 
many times in the night : at last he could bear the 
silence of the cave no more, and went out, descend- 
ing swiftly by the rocks, the path over which he 
could have now followed blindfold, down to the 
edge of the sea. Then he saw that the waves that 
beat against the rock were all luminous, as though 
lit with an inner light ; suddenly, far below, how 
deep he knew not, he saw a great shoal of fish, 
some of them very large, coming softly round the 
rocks ; the water, as it touched their blunt snouts, 
burst as it were into soft flame, and showed every 
twinkle of their fins and every beat of their tails. 
The shoal came swiftly round the rocks, swimming 



THE ISLES OF SUNSET 8i 

intently, and it seemed as though there was no end 
of them. But at last the crowd grew thinner and 
then ceased ; but he could still see the water rip- 
pling all radiant in the great sea-pools, showing the 
motion of broad ribbons of seaweed that swayed to 
and fro, and lighting up odd horned beasts that 
stirred upon the ledges. From that day forth he 
was often filled with a silent wonder at all the 
sleepless life that moved beneath the vast waters, 
and that knew nothing of the little human lives 
that fretted themselves out in the thin air above. 
That day was to him like the opening of a door 
into the vast heart of God. 

But for all his happiness, the thought weighed 
upon him, day after day, of all the grief and un- 
happiness that there was about him. A dying bird 
that he found in a pool, and that rolled its filmy 
eye upon him in fear, as if to ask why he must 
disturb it in its last sad languid hour, the terror 
in which so many of the small fish abode — he sav/ 
once, when the sea was clear, a big fish dart like a 
dark shadow, with open mouth and gleaming eye, 
on a little shoal of fishes that sported joyfully in 
the sun ; they scattered in haste, but they had 
lost their fellows — all this made him ponder ; but 
most of all there weighed on his heart the thought 
of the world he had left, of how men spoke evil 
of each other, and did each other hurt ; of children 
whose lot was to be beaten and cursed for no fault, 
but to please the cruel temper of a master ; of 
patient women, who had so much to bear — so that 
sometimes he had dark thoughts of why God made 
the world so fair, and then left so much that was 



82 THE ISLES OF SUNSET 

amiss, like a foul stream that makes a clear pool 
turbid. And there came into his head a horror of 
taking the lives of creatures for his own use — the 
shell-worm that writhed as he pulled it from the 
shell ; the bright fish that came up struggling and 
gasping from the water, and that fought under his 
hand — and at last he made up his mind that he 
would take no more life, though how he would live 
he knew not ; and as for the world of men, he 
became very desirous to help a little as best he 
could ; and there being at this time a wreck in the 
bay, when a boat and all on board were lost, he 
thought that he would wish, if he could, to keep a 
fire lit on dark nights, so that ships that passed 
should see that there was a dwelling there, and so 
keep farther away from the dangerous rocks. 

By this time it had become known in the country 
where he was — ^his figure had been seen several 
times from the cliffs ; and one day there had come 
a boat, with some of those that knew him, to the 
island. He had no wish to mix again with men ; 
but neither did he desire to avoid them, if it was 
God's will that they should come. So he came 
down courteously, and spoke with the master of 
the boat, who asked him very curiously of his life 
and all that he did. David told him ail ; and when 
the master asked him why he had thus fled away 
from the world, David said simply that he had done 
so that he might pray to God in peace. Then the 
master said that there were many waking hours in 
the day, and he knew not what there might be to 
say prayers about, "for," he said, " you have no 
book to make prayers out of, like the priests, and 



THE ISLES OF SUNSET 83 

you have no store of good-sounding words with 
which to catch the ear of God." Then David said 
that he prayed to God to guard all things great and 
small, and to help himself along the steep road to 
heaven. Then the master wondered very much, 
and said that a man must please himself, and no 
doubt it was a holy work. Then he asked a little 
shamefacedly for David to pray for him, that he 
might be kept safe from shipwreck, and have good 
fortune for fishing, to which David replied, " Oh, 
I do that already." 

Before the master went away, and he stayed not 
long, he asked David how he lived, and offered him 
food. And David being then in a strait— for he 
had lately vowed to take no life, said gladly that he 
would have anything they could give him. So the 
master gave him some victual. And it happened, 
just at this time, that some of the boats from the 
village had a wonderful escape from a storm, and 
through that season they caught fish in abundance ; 
so it was soon noised abroad that this was all be- 
cause of David's prayers ; and after that he never 
had need of food, for they brought him many little 
presents, such as eggs, fruit, and bread — for he 
would take no meat — giving them into his hands 
when he was on the lower rocks, or leaving them 
on a ledge in the cove when he was aloft. And as, 
when the fish were plenteous, they gave him food 
in gratitude, and when fish were scarce, they gave 
it him even more abundantty that they might have 
his prayers, David was never in lack ; in all of 
which he saw the wonderful hand of God working 
for ?xim. 



84 THE ISLES OF SUNSET 

Now David pondered very much hov/ he might 
keep a light aloft on dangerous nights. 

His first thought was to find a sheltered place 
among the rocks to seaward, where his fire could 
burn and not be extinguished b}^ the wind ; but, 
though he climbed all about the rocks, he could find 
no place to his mind. One day, however, he was 
in the furthest recess of his cave, when he felt that 
among the rocks a little thin wind blew constantly 
from one corner ; and feeling about with his hands, 
he found that it came out of a small crack in the 
rocks. The stone above it seemed to be loose ; 
and he perceived after a while that the end of the 
cave must be very near to the seaward face of the 
crag, and that the cave ran right through the rock, 
and was only kept from opening on the outer side 
by a thin barrier of stone ; so after severa.1 attempts, 
using all his strength, he worked the stone loose ; 
and then with a great effort, he thrust the stone 
out ; it fell with a great noise, leaping among the 
crags, and at last plunging into the sea. The wind 
rushed in through the gap ; then he saw that he 
had, as it were, a small window looking out to sea, 
so small that he could not pass through it, but 
large enough to let a light shine forth, if there were 
a light set there ; but though it seemed again to 
him like the guiding hand of God, he could not 
devise how he should shelter the light within from 
the wind. Indeed the hole made the cave a far less 
habitable place for himself, for the wind whistled 
very shrewdly through ; he found it easy enough 
to stop the gap with an old fisherman's coat — ^but 
then the light was hidden from view. So he tried 



THE ISLES OF SUNSET 85 

a further plan ; he dug a hole in the earth at the 
top of the cliff, and then made a bed of dry sand 
at the bottom of it ; and he piled up dry seaweed 
and wood witliin, thinking that if he lit his beacon 
there, it might be sheltered from the wind, and 
would burn fiercely enough to throw up the flame 
above the top of the pit. He sav/ that heavy rain 
would extinguish his fire ; but the nights were most 
dangerous when it blew too strongly for rain to fall. 
So one night, when the wind blew strongly from 
the sea, he laid wood in order, w^hich he had gath- 
ered on the land, and conveyed with many toilsome 
journe3/s over to the island. Then he lighted the 
pile, but it was as he feared ; the wind blew fiercely 
over the top, and drove the flames downward, so 
that the pit glowed with a fierce heat ; and some- 
times a lighted brand was caught up and whirled 
over the cliffs ; but he saw plainly enough that the 
light would not show out at sea. He was very sad 
at this, and at last went heavily down to his cave, 
not knowing what he should do ; and pondering 
long before he slept, he could see no way out. 

In the morning he went up to the cliff-top again, 
and turned his steps to the pit. The fire had 
burned itself out, but the sides were still warm to 
the touch ; aU the ashes had been blown by the 
force of the wind out of the hole ; but he saw some 
bright things lie in the sand, which he could not 
wholly understand, till he pulled them out and 
examined them carefully. They were like smooth 
tubes and lumps of a clear stuff, like molten crystal 
or frozen honey, full of bubbles and stains, but still 
strangely transparent ; and then, though he saw 



86 THE ISLES OF SUNSET 

that these must in some way have proceeded from 
the burning of the fire, he felt as though they must 
have been sent to him for some wise reason. He 
turned them over and over, and held them up to 
the light. It came suddenly into his mind how he 
would use these heavenly crystals ; he would make, 
he thought, a frame of wood, and set these jewels in 
the frame. Then he would set this in the hole of his 
cave, and burn a light behind ; and the light would 
thus show over the sea, and not be extinguished. ^ 

So this after much labour he did ; he fitted all 
the clear pieces into the frame, and he fixed the frame 
very firm in the hole with wooden wedges. Then 
he pushed clay into the cracks between the edges 
of the frame and the stone. Then he told some of 
those who came to him that he had need of oil for 
a purpose, and they brought it him in abundance, 
and wicks for a lamp ; and these he set in an earthen 
bowl filled with oil, and on a dark night, when all 
was finished, he lit his lamp ; and then clambered 
out on the furthest rocks of the island, and saw 
his light burn in the rocks, not clearly, indeed, but 
like an eye of glimmering fire. Then he was very 
glad at heart, and he told the fishermen how he had 
found means to set a light among the cliffs, and that 
he would burn it on dark and stormy nights, so 
that they might see the light and avoid the danger. 
The tidings soon spread, and they thought it a 
very magical and holy device ; but did not doubt 
that the knowledge of it was given to David by God. 

So David was in great happiness. For he knew that 
the Father had answered his prayer, and allov/ed 
him, however little, to help the seafaring folk. 



THE ISLES OF SUNSET %y 

He made other things after that ; he put up a 
doorway with a door of wood in the entering of the 
cave ; he made, too, a httle boat that he'^might go 
to and fro to the land without swimmmg. And 
now, having no care to provide food, for they brought 
it him in abundance, he turned his mind to many 
small things. He made a holy carving in the cave, 
of Christ upon the Cross — and he carved around it 
a number of creatures, not men only, but birds and 
beasts, looking to the Cross, for he thought that 
the beasts also should have their joy in the great 
offering. His fame spread abroad ; and there came 
a priest to see him, who abode with him for some 
days, prayed with him, and taught him much of 
the faith. The priest gave him a book, and showed 
him the letters ; but David, though he longed to 
read what was within, could not hold the letters in 
his head. 

He tamed, too, the wild birds of the rock, so that 
they came to his call ; one was a gull, which became 
so fearless that it would come to his cave, and sit 
silent on a rock, watching him while he worked. 
He kept a fish, too, in a pool of the rocks, that 
would rise to the edge when he approached. 

But all this time he went not near to the village ; 
for his solitude had become very dear to him, and 
he prayed continually ; and at evening and morn- 
ing and midday he would sing praises to God, 
simple words that he had made. 

One morning he awoke in the cave, and as he 
bestirred himself he thought in his heart of all his 
happiness. It was a still morning, but the sky 
was overcast. Suddenly he heard voices below 



88 THE ISLES OF SUNSET 

him; and thinking that he was needed, he de- 
scended the rocks quickly, and came down a httle 
way from a group of sailors who were standing on 
the shore ; there was a boat drawn up on the sand, 
and near at hand there lay at anchor a small ship, 
that seemed to be of a foreign gear, and larger than 
he was wont to see. He came somewhat suddenly 
upon the group, and they seemed, as it were, to 
be amazed to see a man there. He went smilingly 
towards them, but as he did so there came into 
his heart a feeling of danger, he knew not what ; 
and he thought that it would be better to retire 
up the rocks to his cave, and wait till the men had 
withdra¥/n — for it was not likely that they would 
visit him there, or that even if they saw the v/ay 
thither, they would adventure it, as it was steep 
and dangerous. But he put the thought away and 
came up to them. The}/ seemed to be conferring 
together in low voices, and the nearer that he drew, 
the less he liked their look. He spoke to them, 
but they seemed not to understand, and answered 
him back very roughly in a tongue he did not 
understand. But presently they put one forward, 
an old man, v/ho had some words of English, who 
asked him what he did there. He tried to explain 
that he lived on the island, but the old man shook 
his head, evidently not belie\dng that there could 
be one living in so bare a place. Then the men 
conferred again together, and presently the old 
man asked him, in his broken speech, whether he 
would take service on the ship v/ith them. David 
said, smiling, that he would not, for he had other 
work to do ; and the old man seemed to try and 



THE ISLES OF SUNSET 89 

persuade him, saying that it was a good service ; 
that they hved a free hfe, wandering where they 
would ; but that they had lost men lately, and 
were hardly enough to sail the ship. 

Then it came into David's mind that he had fallen 
in with pirates. They were not often seen in these 
parts, for there v/as little enough that they could 
get, the folk being all poor, and small traffic passing 
that wsiy. And then, for he saw the group begin- 
ning to gather round him, he made a prayer in his 
heart that he should be delivered from the evil, and 
made proffer to the men of the little stores that he 
had. The old man shook his head, and spoke with 
the others, who now seemed to be growing angry 
and impatient ; and then he said to David that 
they had need of him to help to sail the ship, and 
that he must come whether he would or no. David 
cast a glance round to see if he could escape up the 
rocks ; but the men v/ere all about him, and seeing 
in his e3/e that he thought of flight, the}^ laid hands 
upon him. Da\id resisted with all his might, but 
they overpowered him in a mioment, bound his 
hands and feet, and cast him v/ith much force into 
their boat. Then David was sorely disheartened ; 
but he waited, committing his soul to God. While 
he waited, he saw a strange thing ; on the beach 
there lay a box, tightly corded ; the men raised 
this up very gently, and with difficulty, as it seemed 
to be heavy. Then they carried it up above the 
tide-mark ; and, making a hole among the loose 
stones, they buried it very carefully, casting stones 
over it. Then one of them with a chisel made a 
mark on the cliff behind, to show where the box 



90 THE ISLES OF SUNSET 

lay — and then, first looking carefull}^ out to sea, 
they came into the boat, and rowed off to the ship, 
which seemed almost deserted ; paying no more 
heed to David than if he had been a log of wood. 

The old man who understood English steered the 
boat ; and David tried to say some words to him, 
to ask that he should be released ; but the old man 
only shook his head ; and at last bade David be 
silent with great anger. They rowed slowly out, 
and David could see the great rocks, that had now 
been his home so long, rising, still and peaceful, 
in the morning light. Ever}' rock and cranm^ was 
known to him. There was the place where, when 
he first came, he was used to fish. There was the 
cliff-top where he had made his fire ; he could even 
see his little window in the front of the rocks, and 
he thought with grief that it would be dark and 
silent henceforth. But he thought that he was 
somehow in the hand of God ; and that though to 
be dragged away from his home seemed grievous, 
there must be some task to which the Father would 
presently set him, even if it were to go down to 
death ; and though the cords that bound him were 
now very painful, and his heart was full of sorrow, 
yet David felt a Idnd of peace in his spirit which 
showed him that God was still with him. 

When the}^ got to the ship, there arose a dispute 
among the men as to whether they should run out 
to sea before it was dark, or whether they should 
lie where they were ; there was but little wind, so 
they made up their minds to stay. David himself 
thought from the look of the sky that there was 
strong weather brewing. The old man who spoke 



THE ISLES OF SUNSET 91 

English asked him what he thought, and he told 
him that there would be wind. He seemed to be 
disposed to believe David ; but the men were tired, 
and it was decided to stay. 

They had unbound David that he might go on 
board ; and the pain in his hands and feet was 
very great when the bonds were unloosed ; and 
when he was on board they bound him again, but 
not so tightly, and led him down into a cabin, close 
and dirt}', where a foul and smoky lamp burnt. 
They bade him sit in a corner. The low ill-smelling 
place was very grievous to David, and he thought 
with a sore heart of his clean cold cave, and his 
bed of fern. The men seemed to take no further 
heed of him, and went about preparing a meal. 
There seemed to be little friendliness among them ; 
they spoke shortly and scowled upon each other ; 
and David divined that there had been some dis- 
pute aboard, and that they were ill-content. There 
was little discipline, the men going and coming 
when they would. 

Before long a meal was prepared ; some sort of 
a stew with a rich strong smell, that seemed very 
gross and foul to David, who had been used so long 
to his simple fare. The men came in and took 
from the dish what they desired ; and a large jar 
w^as opened, which from its fierce smell seemed to 
contain a hot and fiery spirit ; and that it was so 
David could easily discern, from the flushed faces 
and louder talk of the men, which soon became 
mingled with a gross merriment. The old man 
brought a mess of the food to David, who shook 
his head smiling. Then the other, with more 



92 th£ isles of sunset 

kindness than David had expected, asked if he would 
have bread ; and fetched him a large piece, un- 
binding his hands for a little, that he might eat. 
Then he offered him some of the spirit ; but David 
asked for water, which the old man gave him, 
binding his hands after he had drunk, with a cer- 
tain gentleness. 

Presently the old man, after he too had eaten, 
came and sate down beside David ; and in his broken 
talk seemed to wish to win him, if he could, to join 
them more ^villingly. He spoke of the pleasant 
life they lived, and of the wealth that they made, 
though he said not how they came by it. He told 
him that he had seen some of it hidden that day, 
which they had done for greater security, so that, 
if the ship should be cast away, the men might 
have some of their spoil waiting for them ; and 
David understood from him, though he had but 
few words to explain it, that it had been that which 
had caused a strife among them. For they had come 
by the treasure very hardly, and they had lost some 
of the crew in so doing it — and some of the men 
had desired to share it, and have done with the 
sea for ever ; but that it had been decided to make 
another voyage first. 

Then David said very gently that he did not 
desire to join them, for he was a man of peace ; 
and he toiS*Fiim of his lonely life, and how he made 
a light to keep ships off the dangerous coast ; and 
at that the old man looked at him with a fixed 
air, and nodded his head as though he had himself 
heard of the matter, or at least seen the light — 
all this David told him, speaking slowly as to a 



THE ISLES OF SUNSET 93 

child ; but it seemed as though every minute the 
remembrance of the language came more and more 
back to the old man. 

But at last the man shook his head, and said 
that he was sorry so peaceful a life must come to 
an end. But, indeed, David must go with them 
whether he would or no ; and that they would be 
good comrades yet ; and he should have his share 
of whatever they got. And then he left David 
and went on to the deck. 

Then there fell a great despair upon David ; and 
at the same time the crew, excited by the drink 
they had taken, for they drained the jar, began to 
dispute among themselves, and to struggle and 
fight ; and one of them espied David, and they 
gathered round and mocked him. They mocked 
at his dress, his face, his hair, which had grown 
somewhat long. And one of them in particular 
seemed most urgent, speaking long to the others, 
and pointing at David from time to time, while 
the others fell into a great laughter. Then they 
fell to plucking his hair, and even to beating him — 
and they tried to force the spirit into his mouth, 
but he kept his teeth clenched ; and the very smell 
of the fiery stuff made his brain sick. But he could 
not stir hand or foot ; and presently there came 
into his mind a great blackness of an^r, so that 
he seemed to be in the very grip of tne evil one ; 
and he knew in his heart that if he had been un- 
bound, he would have slain one or more of them ; 
for his heart beat thick, and there came a strange 
redness into his sight, and he gnashed his teeth for 
rage ; at which they mocked him the more. But 



94 THE ISLES OF SUNSET 

at last the old man came down into the cabin, and 
when he saw what they were at, he spoke very angrily 
to them, stamping his foot ; and it seemed as 
though he alone had any authority, for they left 
off ill-using David, and went from him one by one. 

Then, after a while they began to nod in their 
places ; one or two of them cast themselves into 
beds made in the wall ; others fell on the floor, and 
slept like beasts ; and at last they all slept ; and 
last of all the old man came in again, bearing a 
lamp, and looked round the room in a sort of angry 
disgust. Then he said a word to David, and open- 
ing a door went on into a cabin beyond, closing the 
door behind him. 

Then, in the low light of the smoking lamp, and 
in the hot and reeking room, with the foul breathing 
of the sleepers round him, David spent a very dread- 
ful hour. He had never in the old days seen so ill 
a scene ; and it was to him, exhausted by pain and 
by rage, as if a dark thing came behind him, and 
whispered in his secret ear that God regarded not 
men at all, and that the evil was stronger than the 
good, and prevailed. He tried to put the thought 
away ; but it came all the more instantly, that 
what he had seen could not be, if God had indeed 
power to rule. It was not only the scene itself, 
but the thought of what these m.en were, and the 
black things they had doubtless done, the deeds of 
murder, cruelty, and lust that were written plainly 
on all their faces ; all these came like dark shadows 
and gathered about him. 

David stirred a little to ease himself of his pain 
and stiffness ; and his foot struck against a thing. 



THE ISLES OF SUNSET 95 

He looked down, and saw in the shadow of the table 
a knife lying, which had fallen from some man's 
belt. A thought of desperate joy came into his 
mind. He bent himself down with his bound 
hands, and he contrived to gather up the knife. 
Then, very swiftly and deftly, he thrust the haft 
between his knees ; then he worked the rope that 
bound his hands to and fro over the blade ; the 
rope parted, and the blood came back into his 
numbed fingers with a terrible pain. But David 
heeded it not, and stooping down, he cut the cord 
that bound his feet ; then he rose softly, and sate 
down again ; for the blood, returning to his limbs, 
made him feel he could not stand yet awhile. All 
was still in the cabin, except for the slow breathing 
of those that slept ; save that ever}^ now and then 
one of the sleepers broke into a stifled cry, and 
muttered words, or stirred in his sleep. 

Presently David felt that he could walk. He 
pondered for a moment whether he should take 
the knife, if he were suddenly attacked ; but he 
resisted the thought, and left the knife lying on the 
ground. 

Then stepping lightly among the sleepers, he 
moved like a shadow to the door ; very carefull}' 
he stepped ; and at each movement or muttered 
word he stopped and caught his breath. Suddenly 
one of the men rose up, leaning on his arm, and 
looked at him with a stupid stare ; but David stood 
still, waiting, with his heart fit to break within his 
breast, till the man lay down again. Then David 
\vas at the door. The cabin occupied half the ship 
to the bows ; the rest was undecked, with high 



96 THE ISLES OF SUNSET 

bulwarks ; a rough ladder of steps led to the gang- 
way. David stood for a moment in the shadow of 
the door ; but there seem.ed no one on the watch 
without. The pure air and the fresh smell of the 
sea came to his senses like a breath of heaven. 
He stepped swiftly over a coil of rope ; then up the 
ladder, and plunged noiselessly into the sea. 

He swam a few strokes very strongly ; and then 
he looked about him. The night was as dark as 
pitch. He could see a dim light from the ship behind 
him ; the water rose and fell in a slow heavy swell ; 
but which way the land lay he could not tell. But 
he said to himself that it was better to drov/n and 
be certainly with God, than in the den of robbers 
he had left. So he turned himself round in the 
water, tr^dng to remember where the shore lay, 
but it was all dark, both the sky and sea, with a 
pitchy blackness ; only the lights of the ship glim- 
mered towards him like little bright paths across 
the heaving tide. 

Suddenty there came a thing so wonderful that 
David could hardly believe he saw truly ; a bright 
eye of light, as it were, opened upon him in the 
dark, far off, and hung high in the heavens, like a 
quiet star. The radiance of it was like the moon, 
cold and clear. And though David could not at 
first divine whence it came, he did not doubt in his 
heart that it was there to guide him ; so he struck 
out towards it, with long silent strokes. He sw^am 
for a long time, the light shining softly over the 
water, and seeming to rise higher over his head, 
while the glimmering of the'^ship's lights grew fainter 
and more murky behind him. Then he became 



THE ISLES OF SUNSET 97 

aware that he was drawing near to the land ; 
great dark shapes loomed up over his head, and he 
heard the soft beating of waves before him. Then 
he could see too, as he looked upon the light, that 
there was a glimmer around it ; and he saw that 
it came from the edges and faces of rocks that were 
lit up by the radiance. So he swam more softly ; 
and presently his foot struck a rock covered with 
weed ; so he put his feet down, waded in cautiously, 
and pulling himself up by the hands found himself 
on a rocky shore, and knew that it was his own 
island. 

Then the hght above him, as though it had but 
waited for his safet}^ to be secured, died softly away, 
like the moon gliding into a cloud. David won- 
dered very much at this, and cast about in his mind 
how it might be ; but his heart seemed to tell him 
that there was some holy and beautiful thing on 
the island very near to him. He could hardly con- 
tain himself for gladness ; and he thought that 
God had doubtless given him this day of misery 
and terror, partly that he might value his peace 
truly, and partly that he might feel that he had it 
not of right, but by the gracious disposition of the 
Father. 

So he climbed very softly and swiftly to the cave ; 
and entered it with a great gladness ; and then he 
became aware of a great awe in his mind. There 
was somewhat there, that he could not see with 
his eyes, but which was more real and present than 
anything he had ever known ; the cave seemed 
to shine with a faint and tender gleam that was 
dying away by slow degrees ; as though the roof 

G 



98 THE ISLES OF SUNSET 

and walls had been charged with a peaceful light, 
which still rayed about them, though the radiance 
that had fed it was withdrawn. He took off his 
dripping clothes, and wrapped himself in his old 
sea-cloak. But he did not think of sleep, or even 
of prayer ; he only sate still on his bed of fern, with 
his eyes open in the darkness, drinking in the 
strong and solemn peace which seemed to abide 
there. David never had known such a feeling, and 
he was never to know it again so fully ; but for the 
time he seemed to sit at the foot of God, satisfied. 
While he thus sate, a great wind sprang up outside 
and thundered in the rocks ; fiercer and fiercer it 
blew, and soon there followed it the loud crying of 
the sea, as the great waters began to heave and 
rage. Then David bestirred himself to light and 
trim his lamp, and set it in the window as a warn- 
ing to ships. And when he had done this he felt 
a great and sudden weariness, and he laid himself 
down ; and sleep closed over him at once, as the 
sea closes over a stone that is flung into it. 

Once in the night he woke, with the roar of the 
storm in his ears, and wondered that he had slept 
through it. He had been through many stormy 
nights, but he had never heard the like of this. 
The wind blew with a steady roar, like a flood of 
thunder outpoured ; in the midst of it, the great 
waves, hurled upon the rocks, uttered their voices ; 
and between he heard the hiss of the water, as it 
rushed downwards from the cliff face. In the 
midst of all came a sharp and sudden wailing cry ; 
and then he began to wonder what the poor ship 
was doing, which he thought of as riding furiously 



THE ISLES OF SUNSET 99 

at her anchor, with the drunken crew, and the old 
man with his sad and solemn face, who seemed so 
different from his unruly followers, and yet was not 
ashamed to rule over them and draw profit from 
their evil deeds. In spite of the ill they had tried 
to do him, he felt a great pity for them in his heart ; 
but this was but for a moment, for sleep closed 
over him again, and drew him down into forget- 
fulness. 

When David woke in the morning, the gale had 
died away, but the sky wept from low and ragged 
clouds, as if ashamed and sullen at the wrath of 
the day before. Water trickled in the cracks of 
the rock ; and when David peered abroad, he 
looked into the thin drifting clouds. He had a 
great content in his heart, but the awe and the 
strange peace of the night had somehow diminished. 

He began to reflect upon the light that he had 
seen from the sea. It was not his lamp that had 
given out such light, for it was clear and thin, while 
the light his own lamp gave was angry and red. 
Moreover, when he had lighted the lamp before the 
storm, it was standing idle, not in the window-place, 
but on the rock-shelf where he had set it. Then 
he knew that some great and holy mystery had 
been wrought for him that night, and that he had 
been very tenderly used. 

Presently he descended the cliff, and went out 
upon the seaward side. The waves still rose angrily 
under the grey sky, but were fast abating. He saw 
in a moment that the shore was full of wreckage ; 
there were spars and timbers everj/where, and all 
the litter of a ship. Some of the timbers were flung 



100 THE ISLES OF SUNSET 

so high upon the rocks that he saw how great the 
violence of the storm had been. He walked along, 
and in a minute he came upon the body of a man 
lying on his face, strangely battered. 

Then he saw another body, and yet another. He 
lifted them up, but there was no sign of life in them ; 
and he recognised with a great sadness that they 
were the pirates who had dragged him from his 
home. He had for a moment one evil thought in 
his mind, a kind of triumph in his heart that God 
had saved him from his enemies, and delivered them 
over to death ; but he knew that it was a wicked 
thought, and thrust it from him. At last at the 
end of the rocks he found the old captain himself. 
There was a kind of majesty about him, even in 
death, as he lay looking up at the sky, with one arm 
flung across his breast, and the other arm out- 
stretched beside him. Then he saw the ribs of the 
ship itself stick up among the rocks, and he won- 
dered to find the hull so broken and ruinous. 

His next care was that the poor bodies should 
have burial. So about midday he took his boat 
from its shelter, and rowed across to the land ; and 
then, with a strange fear of the heart, he climbed 
the cliff, and walked down slowly to the village, 
which he had thought in his heart he would never 
have seen again. 

The wind had now driven the clouds out of the 
sky, and the sun came out with a strong white 
light, the light that shines from the sky when the 
earth has been washed clean by rain. It sparkled 
brightly in the little drops that hung like jewels 
in the grass and bushes. It was with a great throb 



i 



THE ISLES OF SUNSET loi 

of the heart that David came out upon the end of 
the down, and saw the village beneath him. It 
looked as though no change had passed over it, but 
as though its life must have stood still, since he 
left it : then there came tears into David's eves at 
the thought of the old hard life he had lived there, 
and how God had since filled his cup so full of 
peace ; so with many thoughts in his heart he 
came slowly down the path to the town. He first 
met two children whom he did not know ; he spoke 
to them, but they looked for a moment in terror at 
his face ; his hair and beard were long, and he was 
all tanned by the sun ; but he spoke softty to them, 
and presenth^ they came to him and were persuaded 
to tell their names. They were the children, David 
thought, of a young lad whom he had known as a 
boy ; and presently, as the manner of children is 
when they have laid aside fear, they told him many 
small things, their ages and their doings, and other 
little affairs which seem so big to a child ; and 
then they would take his hands and lead him to 
the village, while David smiled to be so lovingly 
attended. He was surprised, when he entered the 
street, to see how curiously he was regarded. Even 
men and women, that he had known, w'ould hardly 
speak wdth him, but did him reverence. The chil- 
dren would lead him to their house first ; and so 
he went thither, not unwilling. When they were 
at the place, he found with a gentle wonder that it 
was even the house where he had himself dwelt. 
He went in, and found the mother of the children 
within, one whom he had known as a girl. She 
greeted him with the same reverence as the rest ; 



102 THE ISLES OF SUNSET 

so that he at last took courage, and asked her why 
it should not be as it had been before. And then 
he learned from her talk, with a strange surprise, 
that it was thought that he was a very holy man, 
much visited by God, who not only had been shown 
how, by a kind of magical secret, to save ships 
from falling on that deadly coast, but as one whose 
prayers availed to guard and keep the whole place 
safe. He tried to show her that this was not so, 
and that he was a simple person in great need of 
holiness ; but he saw that she only thought him 
the holier for his humility, so he was ashamed to 
say more. 

Then he went to the chief man in the village, and 
told him wherefore he had come — that there was a 
wreck on the shore of the islands, and that there 
were bodies that must be buried. One more visit 
he paid, and that was to the little maiden whom 
he had seen the last when he went away. She was 
now nearly grown to a woman, and her grandmother 
was very old and weak, and near her end. David 
went there alone, and said that he had returned as 
he had promised ; but he found that the child had 
much lost her remembrance of him, and could 
hardly see the friend she had known in the strong 
and wild-looking figure that he had become. He 
talked a little quietly ; the old grandmother, who 
could not move from her chair, was easier with 
him, and asked him, looking curiously upon him, 
whether he had found that of which he went in 
search. " Nay, mother," he said, " not found ; 
but I am like a man whose feet are set in the way, 
and who sees the city gate across the fields." Then 



THE ISLES OF SUNSET 103 

she smiled at him and said, " But I am near the 
gate." Then he toid her that he often thought of 
her, and made mention of her in his prayers ; and 
so rose to go ; but she asked him to bless her, which 
David did very tenderly, and kissed her and de- 
parted ; but he went heavily ; because he feared 
to be regarded as he was now regarded ; and he 
thought in his heart that he would never return 
again, but dwell alone in his cave with God. For 
the world troubled him ; and the voices of the 
children, and the looks of those that he had known 
before seemed to lay soft hands about his heart, 
and draw him back into the world. 

The same day he returned to the cave ; and the 
boats came out and took the bodies away, and they 
were laid in the burying-ground. 

Then the next day many returned to clear away 
the wreck ; and David came not out of his cave 
while they did this ; for it went to his heart to 
see the joy with which they gathered what had 
meant the death of so many men. They asked him 
what they should leave for him, and he ansvv'ered, 
" Nothing — only a piece of plain wood, for a pur- 
pose." So when evening came they had removed 
all ; and the island, that had rung all day with 
shouts and talk and the feet of men, was silent 
again ; but before they went, David said that he 
had a great desire to see a priest, if a message could 
be sent ; and this they undertook to do. But David 
was very heavy-hearted for many days, for it seemed 
to him that the sight of the world had put all the 
peace out of his hea.rt ; and his prayers came 
hollow and dry. 



104 THE ISLES OF SUNSET 

A few days after there came a boat to the rock ; 
the sea was running somewhat high, and they had 
much ado to make a landing. David went down 
to the water's edge, and saw that besides the fisher- 
men, whom he knew, there was a httle wizened 
man in a priest's dress, that seemed bewildered by 
the moving of the boat and the tossing of the big 
waves with their heaving crests, that broke upon 
the rocks with a heavy sound. At last they got 
the boat into the creek, and the little priest came 
nimbly ashore, but not without a wetting. The 
fishermen said that they would return in the even- 
ing, and fetch the priest away. 

He looked a frail man, and David could not dis- 
cern whether he were young or old ; and he felt 
a pity for a man who was so unhandy, and who 
seemed to be so scared of the sea. But the priest 
came up to him and took his hand. " I have heard 
much of you, my brother," he said, " and I have 
desired to see you — but this sea of yours is a strange 
and wild monster, and I trust it not, — though in- 
deed it is God's handiwork. Yet King David, your 
patron, was of the same mind, I think, and wrote 
in one of his wise psalms how it made the heart to 
melt within him." David looked at him with much 
attention as he spoke, and there was something in 
the priest's eye, a kind of hidden fire, joined with a 
wise mirth, that made him, all of a sudden, feel 
like a child before him. So he said, " Where will 
your holiness sit ? It is cold here in the wind ; 
I have a dwelling in the rocks, but it is hard to 
come by except for winged fowl, and for men like 
myself who have been used to the precipices." 



THE ISLES OF SUNSET 105 

" Well, show the way, brother," said the priest 
cheerfully, " and I will adventure my best." So 
David showed him the way up the crags, and went 
slowly in front of him, that he might help him up ; 
but the priest climbed like a cat, looking blithely 
about him, and had no need of help, though he was 
encumbered with his robe. 

When they were got there, the priest looked 
curiously about him, and presently knelt down be- 
fore the carving, and said a little prayer to himself. 

Then he questioned David about his life, asking 
questions briskly, as though he were accustomed 
to command ; and David felt more and more every 
moment that he was as a child before this masterful 
and wary man. He told him of his early life, and 
of his visions, and of his desire to know God, and 
of the light that he set in the rocks ; and then he 
told him of his adventure with the pirates, not 
forgetting the treasure. The priest heard him with 
great attention, and said presently that he had 
done well, and that God was with him. Then he 
asked him how he would have the treasure bestowed, 
and David said that he had no design in his mind. 
"Then that shall be my care," said the priest, 
" and I doubt not that the Lord hath sent it us, 
that there may be a church in this lonely place." 

And then, turning to David with a wonderful 
and piercing look, he said, " And this peace of 
spirit that you speak of, that you came here to 
seek, tell me truly, brother, have you found it ? " 

Then David looked upon the ground a little and 
said, " Dear sir, I know not ; I am indeed strangely 
happy in this lonely place ; but to speak all the 



io6 THE ISLES OF SUNSET 

truth, I feel like a man who lingers at a gate, and 
who hears the sound of joy and melody within, 
which rejoices his heart, but he is not yet admitted. 
No," he v/ent on, " I have not found the way. 
The Father is indeed very near me, and I am cer- 
tain of His love — but there is still a barrier between 
me and His Heart." 

Then the priest bowed his head awhile in thought, 
but said nothing for a long space ; and then David 
said, " Dear sir, advise me." Then the priest 
looked at him with a clear gaze, and said, " Shall I 
advise you, O my brother ? " And David said, 
" Yes, dear sir." Then the priest said, " Indeed, 
my brother, I see in your life the gracious hand of 
God. He did redeem you, and He planted in your 
heart a true seed of peace. You have lived here a 
holy and an innocent life ; but He withholds from 
you His best gift, because yon are not willing to be 
utterly led by Him. There have been in ancient 
days many such souls, who have fled from the 
wickedness of the world, and have spent themselves 
in pra\^er and penance, and have done a holy work 
— for indeed there are many victories that may be 
won by prayer. But indeed, dear brother, I think 
that God's will for you is that this lonely life of 
yours should have an end. I think that you have 
herein followed your own pleasure overmuch ; and 
I believe that God would now have you go back 
to the world, and work for Him therein. You have 
a great power with this simple folk ; but they are 
as sheep without a shepherd, and must be fed, and 
none but you can now feed them. You will bethink 
you of the visit that the Lord Christ paid to the 



THE ISLES OF SUNSET 107 

Sisters of Bethany ; Martha laboured much to 
please Him, but she laboured for her own pleasing 
too ; and Mary it was that had the good part, 
because she thought not of herself, but of the Lord. 
And now, dear brother, I would have you do what 
will be very grievous to you. I would have you 
go back to your native place, and there abide to 
labour for God ; you may come hither at seasons, 
and be alone with God, and that will refresh you ; 
but you are now, methinks, like a man who has 
found a great treasure, and who speaks no word 
of it to others, and neither uses it himself, but only 
looks upon it and is glad." 

Then David was very sad at the priest's words, 
knowing that he spoke the truth. But the priest 
said, " Now we will speak no more of this awhile ; 
and I would not have you do it, unless your heart 
consents thereto ; only be strong." And then he 
asked if he might have somewhat to eat ; and David 
brought him his simple fare ; so the}^ ate together, 
and while they ate, it came into David's mind that 
this was certainly the way. All that afternoon 
they sate, while the wind rustled without, and the 
sea made a noise ; and then the priest said they 
would go and look at the treasure, because it was 
near evening, and he must return. So they went 
down together, and drew the rocks off from the box. 
It was a box of wood, tightly corded, and they undid 
it, and found within a great store of gold and silver 
pieces, which the priest reckoned up, and said that 
it would be abundant for a church. 

Then they saw the boat approach ; and the priest 
blessed David, and David thanked him with tears. 



io8 THE ISLES OF SUNSET 

for showing him the truth ; and the priest said, 
"Not so, my brother ; I did but show you what 
is in your own heart, for God puts such truth in 
the heart of all of us as we can bear ; but sometimes 
we keep it like a sword in its scabbard, until the 
bright and sharp thing, that might have wrought 
great deeds, be all rusted and blunted." 

And then the priest departed, taking with him the 
box of gold, and David was left alone. 

David was very heavy-hearted when he was left 
alone on the island. He knew that the priest had 
spoken the truth, but he loved his solitary life, and 
the silence of the cave, the free air and the sun, 
and the lonely current of his own thoughts. The 
sun went slowly down over the waters in a great 
splendour of light and colour, so that the clouds 
in the sky seemed like purple islands floating in a 
golden sea ; David sitting in his cave thought with 
a kind of terror of the small and close houses of the 
village, the sound of feet, and talk of men and 
women. At last he fell asleep ; and in his sleep 
he dreamed that he was in a great garden. He 
looked about him with pleasure, and he presently 
saw a gardener moving about at his work. He 
went in that direction, and he saw that the man, 
who was old and had a very wise and tender face, 
was setting out some young trees in a piece of 
ground. He planted them carefully with deft 
hands, and he smiled to himself as he worked, as 
though he was full of joyful thoughts. David 
wished in his heart to go and speak with him, but 
something held him back. Presently the gardener 
went away, and while he was absent, another man, 



THE ISLES OF SUNSET 109 

of a secret aspect, came swiftly into the place, 
peering about him. His glance passed David by, 
and David knew that he was in some way unseen. 
The man looked all about him in a furtive haste, 
and then plucked up one of the trees, which seemed 
to David to be already growing and shooting out 
small leaves and buds. The man smoothed down 
the ground where he drew it out, and then went 
very quickly away. David would have wished to 
stop him, but he could not. Then the old gardener 
came back, and looked long at the place whence 
the tree had been drawn. Then he sighed to him- 
self, and cast a swift look in the direction in which 
the man had fled. He had brought other trees 
with him, but he did not plant one in the empty 
space, but left it bare. Then David felt that he 
must follow the other, and so he did. He found 
him very speedily, but it was outside the garden, 
in a rough place, v/here thorny bushes and wild 
plants grew thickly. The other had cleared a little 
space among them, and here he set the tree ; but 
he planted it ill and hastily, as though he was afraid 
of being disturbed ; and then he departed secretly. 
David stood and v/atched the tree a little. It 
seemed at first to begin to grow again as it had done 
before, but presently something ailed it and it 
drooped. Then David saw the thorny bushes near 
it begin to stretch out their arms about it, and the 
wild herbs round about sprang up swiftly, and soon 
the tree was choked by them, and hardly appeared 
above the brake. David began to be sorry for the 
tree, which still kept some life in it, and struggled 
as it were feebly to put out its boughs above the 



no THE ISLES OF SUNSET 

thicket. While he stood he saw the old gardener 
approaching, and as he approached he carefully 
considered the ground. When he saw the tree, he 
smiled, and drew it out carefully, and went back 
to the garden, and David followed him ; he planted 
it again tenderly in the ground ; and the tree which 
had looked so drooping and feeble began at once to 
put forth leaves and flowers. The gardener smiled 
again, and then for the first time looked upon 
David. His eyes were deep and grave like a still 
water ; and he smiled as one might who shares a 
secret with another. And then of a sudden David 
awoke, and found the light of dawn creeping into 
the cave ; and he fell to considering the dream, 
and in a moment knew that it was sent for his 
learning. So he hesitated no longer, but gave up 
his will to God. 

It was a sad hour for David nevertheless ; he 
walked softly about the cave, and he put aside 
what he would take with him, and it seemed to 
him that he was, as it were, uprooting a tree that 
had grown deep ; he tied up what he would take 
with him, but he left some things behind, for he 
thought that he might return. And then he kneeled 
down and prayed, the tears running over his face ; 
and lastly he rose and kissed the cold wall of the 
cave ; at the door he saw the gull that had been 
with him so oft, and he scattered some crumbs for 
it, and while the bird fell to picking the crumbs, 
David descended the rock swiftly, not having the 
heart to look about him ; and then he put his things 
in the boat, and rowed swiftly and silently to the 
shore, looking back at the great rocks which stood 



THE ISLES OF SUNSET iii 

up all bright and clear in the fresh light of the 
dawn, with the waves breaking softly at their 
feet. 

David had no fixed plan in his mind, as he rowed 
across to the land. He only thought that it was 
right for him to return, and to take up his part in 
the old life again. He did not dare to look before 
him, but simply put, as it were, his hand in the 
hand of God, and hoped to be led forward. He 
was soon at the shore, and he pulled his boat up 
on the land, and left it lying in a little cave that 
opened upon the beach ; then he shouldered his 
pack, and went slowly, with even strides, across 
the hill and down to the village. He met no one 
on the way, and the street seemed deserted. He 
made his way to the house of the old woman who 
was his friend ; he put his small pack at the door 
and entered. The little house was quite silent. 
But he heard a sound of weeping ; when he came 
into the outer room, he saw the maiden sitting in a 
chair with her face bowed on the table. He called 
to her by name ; she lifted her head and looked at 
him for a moment and then rose up and cam.e to 
him, as a child com.es to be comforted. He saw 
at once that some grievous thing had happened ; 
and presently with sobs and tears she told him 
that her grandmother had died a few days before, 
that she had been that day buried, and that she 
knew not what she was to do. There seemed more 
behind ; and David at last made out that she was 
asked in marriage by a young fisherman whom she 
did not love, and she knew not how else to live. 
And then he said that he was come back and would 



112 THE ISLES OF SUNSET 

not depart from her, and that she should be a 
daughter to him. 

Now of the rest of the hfe of David I must not 
here speak ; he hved in the village, and he did 
his part ; a little chapel was built in the place with 
the money of the pirates ; and David went in and 
out among the folk of the place, and drew many 
to the love of God ; he went once back to the cave, 
but he abode not long there ; but of one thing I 
will tell, and that is of a piece of carving that David 
did, working little by httle in the long winter nights 
at the piece of wood that came from the pirate 
ship. The carving is of a man standing on the 
shore of the sea, and holding up a lantern in his 
hand, and on the sea is carved a ship. And David 
calls his carving " The Light of the World." At 
the top of it is a scroll, with the words thereon, 
" He shall send down from on high to fetch me, 
and shall take me out of many waters." And 
beneath is another scroll on which is graven, " Thou 
also shalt light my candle ; the Lord my God shall 
make my darkness to be light." 



THE WAVING OF THE SWORD 

The things that are set down here happened in the 
ancient days when there was sore fighting in the 
land ; the King, who was an unjust man, fighting 
to maintain his realm, and the barons fighting for 
the law ; and the end was not far off, for the King 
was driven backwards to the sea, and at last could 
go no further ; so he gathered all the troops that 
he might in a strong fort that lay in the midst of 
the downs, where the hills dipped to the plain to 
let the river pass through ; and the barons drew 
slowly in upon him, through the forest in the plain. 
Beyond the downs lay the sea, and there in a little 
port was gathered the King's navy, that if the last 
fight went ill with him, as indeed he feared it would, 
he might fly for safety to another land. 

Now in a house below the down, a few miles 
from the King's stronghold, dwelt a knight that 
was neither old nor young, and his name was Sir 
Henry Strange. He lived alone and peevishly, and 
he did neither good nor evil. He had no skill in 
fighting, but neither had he skill in peaceful arts. 
He had tried many things and wearied of all. He 
had but a small estate, which was grown less by 
foolish waste. He could have made it into a rich 
heritage, for his land was good. But he had no 
patience with his men, and confused them by his 

113 H 



114 THE WAVING OF THE SWORD 

orders, which he would not see carried out. Some- 
times he would fell timber, and then leave it to 
rot in the wood ; or he would plough a field, and 
sow it not. At one time he had a fancy to be a 
minstrel, but he had not patience to attain to 
skill ; he would write a ballad and leave it un- 
done ; or he would begin to carve a figure of wood, 
and toss it aside ; sometimes he would train a dog 
or a horse ; but he would so rage if the beast, being 
puzzled for all its goodwill, made mistakes, that it 
grew frightened of him — for nothing can be well 
learnt except through love and trust. He would 
sometimes think that he should have been a monk, 
and that under hard discipline he would have fared 
better — and indeed this was so, for he had abun- 
dant aptitude. He was alone in the world, for he 
had come into his estate when yoimg ; but he had 
had no patience to win him a wife. At first, indeed, 
his life had not been an unhappy one, for he was 
often visited by small joyful thoughts, which made 
him glad ; and he took much pleasure, on sunshiny 
days, in the brave sights and sounds of the world. 
But such delights had grown less ; and he was now 
a tired and restless man of forty years, who lay 
long abed and went not much abroad ; and was for 
ever telling himself how happy he would be if this 
or that were otherwise. Far down in his heart he 
despised himself, and wondered hov/ God had come 
to make so ill-contented a thing ; but that v/as a 
chamber in his mind that he visited not often ; 
but rather took pleasure in the thought of his skill 
and deftness, and his fitness for the many things 
he might have done. 



THE WAVING OF THE SWORD 115 

And now in the war he had come to a pass. He 
would not join himself to the King, because the King 
was an evil man, and he liked not evil ; yet he 
loved not rebellion, and feared for his safety if the 
King had the upper hand ; but it was still more 
that he had grown idle and soft-hearted, and feared 
the hard faring and brisk jesting of the camp. Yet 
even so the thought of the war lay heavy on his 
heart, and he wondered how men, whose lives were 
so short upon the goodly earth, should find it in 
their hearts to slay and be slain for such shadowy 
things as command and dominion ; and he thought 
he would have made a song on that thought, but 
he did not. 

And now the fighting had come very near him ; 
and he had let some of his men go to join the King, 
but he went not himself, saying that he was sick, 
and might not go abroad. 

He stood on a day, at this time, by a little wall 
that enclosed his garden-ground. It was in the 
early summer ; the trees had put on their fresh 
green, and glistened in the still air, and the meadows 
were deep with grass, on the top of which seemed 
to float unnumbered yellow flowers. In and out 
the swallows passed, hunting for the flies that 
danced above the grass ; and he stood, knowing 
how fair the earth was, and yet sick at heart, won- 
dering why he could not be as a careless bird, that 
hunts its meat all day in the sun, and at evening 
sings a song of praise among the thickets. 

Over the trees ran the great down with its smooth 
green sides, as far as the eye could see. The heat 
winked on its velvety bluffs, and it seemed to him, 



ii6 THE WAVING OF THE SWORD 

as it had often seemed before, like a great beast 
lying there in a dream, with a cloth of green cast 
over its huge limbs. 

He was a tall lean man, somewhat stooping. 
His face had a certain beauty ; his hair and beard 
were dark and curhng ; he had large eyes that 
looked sadly out from under heavy lids. His 
mouth was small, and had a very sweet smile 
when he was pleased ; but his brow was puckered 
together as though he pondered ; his hands were 
thin and delicate, and there was something almost 
womanly about his whole air. 

Presently he walked into the little lane that 
bordered his garden. He heard the sound of wheels 
coming slowly along the white chalky road ; he 
waited to look, and saw a sad sight. In the cart 
was a truss of hay, and sunk upon it sate a man, 
his face down on his breast, deadly pale ; as the 
cart moved, he swayed a little from side to side. 
The driver of the cart walked beside, sullenly and 
slowly ; and by him walked a girl, just grown a 
woman, as pale as death, looking at the man that 
sate in the cart with a look of terror and love ; 
sometimes she would take his helpless hand, and 
murmur a word ; but the man heeded not, and sate 
lost in his pain. As they passed him he could see 
a great bandage on the man's chest that was red 
with blood. He asked the waggoner v/hat this was, 
and he told him that it was a young man of the 
country-side that had been hurt in a fight ; he was 
but newly married, and it was thought he could 
not live. The cart had stopped, and the woman 
pulled a little cup out of a jug of water that stood 



THE WAVING OF THE SWORD 117 

in the straw, and put it to the wounded man's hps, 
who opened his eyes, all dark and dazed with pain, 
but with no look of recognition in them, and drank 
greedily, sinking back into his sick dream agam. 
The girl put the cup back, and clasped her hands 
over her eyes, and then across her breast with a 
low moan, as though her heart would break. The 
tears came into Sir Henry's eyes ; and fumbling in 
his pockets he took out some coins and gave them 
to the woman, v/ith a kind word. " Let him be well 
bestowed," he said. The w^oman took the coins, 
hardly heeding him ; and presently the cart started 
again, a shoot of pain darting across the wounded 
man's face as the wheels grated on the stones. 

Sir Henry stood long looking after them ; and 
it came into his heart that war was a foul and evil 
thing ; though he half envied the poor soul that 
had fought his best, and was now^ sinking into the 
shadow of death. 

While he thus lingered there sprang into his mind 
a thought that made him suddenly grow erect. 

He walked swiftly along the lane with its high 
hedges and tall elms. The lane was at the foot of 
the down, but raised a little above the plain, so 
that he could see the rich woodland with its rolling 
hnes, and far away the faint line of the northern 
hills. It was very still, and there seemed not a 
care in the great world ; it seemed all peace and 
happy quiet life ; yet the rumbling of the cart- 
wheels which he still heard at a distance, now low 
and now loud, told him of the sorrow that lay 
hidden under those dreaming woods ; was it all 
thus ? And then he thought of the great armies 



ii8 THE WAVING OF THE SWORD 

that were so near, and of all the death they meant 
to deal each other. And yet God sat throned aloft 
watching all things, he thought, with a calm and 
quiet eye, waiting, waiting. But for what ? Was 
His heart indeed pitiful and loving, as His priests 
said ? and did He hold in His hand, for those that 
passed into the forgetful gate, some secret of joyful 
peace that would all in a moment make amends ? 

He stopped beside a little stile — there, in front 
of him, over the tops of an orchard, the trees of 
which were all laden with white and rosy flowers, 
lay a small high-shouldered church, with a low 
steeple of wood. The little windows of the tower 
seemed to regard him as with dark sad eyes. He 
went by a path along the orchard edge, and entered 
the churchyard, full of old graves, among which 
grew long tumbled grass. He thought with a 
throb, that was almost of joy, of all those that had 
laid down their weary bones there in the dust, 
husband by wife, child by mother. They were 
waiting too, and how quietly ! It was all over for 
them, the trouble and the joy alike ; and for a 
moment the death that all dread seemed to him 
like a simple and natural thing, the one thing cer- 
tain. There at length they slept, a quiet sleep, 
waiting for the dawn, if dawn there were. 

He crossed the churchyard and entered the 
church ; the coolness and the dark and the ancient 
holy smell was sweet after the brightness and the 
heat outside. Every line of the place was famihar 
to him from his childhood. He walked slowly up 
the little aisle and passed within the screen. The 
chancel was very dark, only lighted by tw^o or three 



THE WAVING OF THE SWORD 119 

deep-set windows. He made a reverence and then 
drew near to the altar. 

All the furniture of the church was most simple 
and old ; but over the altar there was a long un- 
usual-looking shelf ; he went up to it, and stood 
for awhile gazing upon it. Along the shelf lay a 
rude and ancient sword of a simple design, in a 
painted scabbard of wood ; and over it was a 
board with a legend painted on it. 

The legend was in an old form of French words, 
long since disused in the land. But it said : 

Unsheathe me and die thyself, hut the battle shall 
he stayed. 

He had known the look of the sword, and the 
words on the board from a child. The tale was 
that there had been in days long past a great battle 
on the hill, and that the general of one of the armies 
had been told, in a dream or vision, that if he should 
himself be slain, then should his men have the 
victory ; but that if he Hved through the battle, 
then should his men be worsted. Now before the 
armies met, while they stood and looked upon each 
other, the general, so said the tale, had gone out 
suddenly and alone, with his sword bare in his 
hand, and his head uncovered ; and that as he 
advanced, one of his foes had drawn a bow and 
pierced him through the brain, so that he fell in his 
blood between the armies ; and that then a kind 
of fury had fallen upon his men to avenge his death, 
and they routed the foe with a mighty slaughter. 
But the sword had been set in the church with this 
legend above it ; and there it had lain many a year. 

So Sir Henry disengaged the sword from its place 



120 THE WAVING OF THE SWORD 

very tenderly and carefully. It had been there so 
long that it was all covered with dust ; and then, 
holding it in his hands, he knelt down and made a 
prayer in his heart that he might have strength for 
what he had a mind to do ; and then he walked 
softly down the church, looking about him with 
a sort of secret tenderness, as though he were bid- 
ding it all farewell ; his own father and mother 
were buried in the church ; and he stopped for 
awhile beside their grave, and then, holding the 
sword by his side — for he wished it not to be seen 
of any — he went back to his house, and put the 
sword away in a great chest, that no one might 
know where it was laid. 

Then he tarried not, but went softly out ; and all 
that afternoon he walked about his own lands, every 
acre of them ; for he did not think to see them 
again ; and his mind went back to the old days ; 
he had not thought that all could be so full of little 
memories. In this place he remembered being set 
on a horse by his father, v/ho held him very lov- 
ingly and safely while he led the great beast about ; 
he remembered how proud he had been, and how 
he had fancied himself a mighty warrior. On this 
little pond, with all its reeds and waterliHes, he had 
sailed a boat on a summer day, his mother sitting 
near under a tree to see that he had no danger ; 
and thus it was everywhere ; till, as he walked in 
the silent afternoon, he could almost have beUeved 
that there were others that walked with him un- 
seen, to left and right ; for at every place some 
little memory roused itself, as the flies that rise 
buzzing from the leaves when you walk in an alley, 



THE WAVING OF THE SWORD 121 

until he felt like a child again, with all the years 
before him. 

Then he came to the house again, and did the 
same for every room. He left one room for the 
last, a room where dwelt an old and simple woman 
that had nursed him ; she was very frail and aged 
now, and went not much abroad, but sate and did 
little businesses ; and it was ever a delight to her 
if he asked her to do some small task for him. He 
found her sitting, smiling for pleasure that he 
should come to her thus ; and he kissed her, and 
sate beside her for awhile, and they talked a little 
of the childish days, for he was still ever a child 
to her. Then he rose to leave her, and she asked 
him, as was her wont, if there was anything that 
she could do for him, for it shamed her, she said, 
to sit and idle, when she had been so busy once, 
and when there was still so much to do. And he 
said, " No, dear nurse, there is nothing at this 
time." And he hesitated for an instant, and then 
said, " There is indeed one thing ; I have a busi- 
ness to do to-night, that is hard and difficult ; and 
I do not know what the end will be ; will you say 
a prayer for your boy to-night, that he may be 
strong ? " She looked at him quickly and was 
silent ; and then she said, " Yes, dear child, but I 
ever do that — and I have no skill to make new 
prayers — but I will say my prayer over and over 
if that v/ill avail." And he said, smiling at her, 
though the tears were in his eyes, " Yes, it will 
avail," and so he kissed her and went away, while 
she fell to her prayers. 

Now the day had all this while grown stiller and 



122 THE WAVING OF THE SWORD 

hotter, till there was not a breath stirring ; and 
now out to the eastwards there came on an angry 
blackness in the sky, with a pale redness beneath 
it, where the thunder dwelt. Sir Henry sate down, 
for he was weary of his walking, and in a little he 
fell asleep ; his thoughts still ran upon the sword, 
for he dreamed that he had it with him in a wood 
that he knew not, that was dark with the shade 
of leaves ; and he hung the sv/ord upon a tree, and 
went on, to win out of the wood if he could, for it 
seemed very close and heavy in the forest ; some- 
times through the trees he saw a space of open 
ground, with ferns glistening in the sun ; but he 
could not find the end of the wood ; so he came 
back in his dream to where he had left the sv/ord ; 
and while he stood watching it, he saw that some- 
thing dark gathered at the scabbard end, and 
presently fell with a little sound among the leaves. 
Then with a shock of terror he saw that it was 
blood ; and he feared to take the sword back ; 
but looking downwards he perceived that where 
the blood had fallen, there were red flowers grow- 
ing among the leaves of a rare beauty, which seemed 
to be born of the blood. So he gathered a handful, 
and wreathed the sword with them ; and then came 
a gladness into his mind, with which he awoke, 
and found it evening ; he came back to himself 
with a kind of terror, and a fear darted into his 
breast ; the windows were open, and there came 
in a scent of flowers ; and he felt a great love for 
the beautiful earth, and for his quiet life ; and he 
looked at the chest ; and there came into his mind 
a strong desire to take the sword out, and lay it 



THE WAVING OF THE SWORD 123 

back in the church, and let things be as they had 
been ; and so he sate and mused. 

Presently his old serving-man came in and told 
him he had set his supper ; so Henry went into 
the parlour, and made some pretence to be about 
to eat ; sending the old man away, who babbled 
a little to him of the war, of the barons' army that 
drew nearer, and of how the King was sore bested. 
When he was gone Sir Henry ate a little bread and 
drank a sup of wine ; and then he rose up, like 
one who had made up his mind. He went to the 
chest and drew out the sword ; and then he went 
softly out of the house, and presently walking 
swiftly he came out on the down. 

It was now nearly dusk ; the sky lay clear and 
still, fading into a sort of dehcate green, but all the 
west was shrouded in a dim blackness, the cloud 
being spread out, like a great dark bird winging 
its way slowly up the sky. Then far down in the 
west there leapt, as it were, interlacing streams of 
fire out of the cloud, and then followed a low rolling 
of thunder. 

But all the while he mounted the down, up a 
Uttle track that gleamed white in the grass ; and 
now he could see the huge plain, with a few Hghts 
twinkhng out of farms ; far down to the west there 
was a little redness of light, and he thought that 
this was doubtless where the army of the barons 
lay ; but he seemed to himself to have neither 
wonder nor fear left in his mind ; he only went 
like one that had a task to perform ; and soon he 
came to the top. 

Here all was bare, save for some bushes of furze 



124 THE WAVING OF THE SWORD 

that grew blackly in the gloom ; he stepped through 
them, and he came at last to where a great mound 
stood, that was held to be the highest place in all 
the down, a mound that marked the place of a 
battle, or that was perhaps the burying-place of 
some old tribe — for it was called the Barrow of the 
Seven Kings. 

He came quickly to the mound, and went to the 
top ; and then he laid the sword upon the turf by 
him, and kneeled down ; once again came a great 
outpouring of fire from heaven in the west, and a 
peal of thunder followed hard upon it ; and indeed 
the storm v/as near at hand ; he could see the great 
wings of the cloud moving now, and a few large 
drops splashed in the grass about him, and one fell 
upon his brow. 

And now a great fear fell upon Henry of he knew 
not what. He seemed to himself to be in the 
presence of some vast and fearful thing, that was 
passing swiftly by ; and yet seemed, for all its 
haste, to have espied him, and to have been, as it 
were, stayed by him ; there came into his mind a 
recollection of how he had once, on a summer's 
day, joined the movv^ers in one of the fields, and 
had mowed a few swathes with them for the plea- 
sure of seeing the rich seeded grass fall before the 
gleaming scythe. At one of his strokes, he remem- 
bered, he had uncovered a little field-mouse, that 
sate in the naked field, its high covert having been 
swept bare from above it, and watched him with 
bright eyes of fear, while he debated whether he 
should crush it ; he had done so, he remembered, 
carelessly, with his foot, and now he wished that 



THE WAVING OF THE SWORD 125 

he had spared it, for it was even so that he himself 
felt. 

So to strengthen himself in his purpose, he made 
a prayer aloud, though it was a thing that in his 
idle life he had much foregone ; and he said : 

" Lord God, if Thou indeed hearest and seest 
me, make me strong to do what I have a mind to 
do ; I have lived foolishly and for myself, and I 
have little to give. I have despised life, and it is 
as an empty husk to me. I have put love away 
from me, and my heart is dry ; I have had friends 
and I have wearied of them. I have profited no- 
thing ; I have wasted my strength in foolish dreams 
of pleasure, and I have not found it. I am as a 
weed that cumbers the fair earth." 

Then he stayed for a moment, for he was afraid ; 
for it seemed to him as though somewhat stood 
near to listen. Then he said again : — 

" But, Lord, I do indeed love my fellow-men a 
little ; and I would have the waste of life stayed. 
It is a pitiful thing that I have to offer, but it is 
all that I have left — an empty life, which yet I love. 
I will not promise. Lord, to yield my life to the 
service of men, for I love my ease too well, and I 
should not keep my word — so I offer my life freely 
into Thy hand, and let it avail that which it may 
avail." 

Then the blackness seemed to gather all about 
him, and he felt with his hand in the turf and found 
the sword ; then he drev/ the scabbard off, and 
flung it down beside him, and he raised the sword 
in his hands. 

Then it seemed as though the heavens opened 



126 THE WAVING OF THE SWORD 

above him, but he saw not the fire, nor heard the 
shouting of the thunder that followed ; he fell on 
his face in the turf without a sound and moved no 
more. 

Now it happened that about the time that he 
unsheathed the sword, it came into the heart of 
the King to send a herald to the barons ; for he saw 
the host spread out below him on the plain, and 
he feared to meet them ; and the barons, too, v/ere 
weary of fighting ; and the King bound himself by 
a great oath to uphold the law of the realm, and 
so the land had peace. 

The next day came a troop of men-at-arms along 
the hill ; and they wondered exceedingly to see a 
man lie on the mound with a sword in his hand 
unsheathed, and partly molten. He lay stiff and 
cold, but they could not tell how he came by his 
death, and they knew not what he had done for 
the land ; his hand was so tightly clenched upon 
the sword, that they took it not out, but they 
buried him there upon the hill-top, very near the 
sky, and passed on ; and no m.an knew what had 
become of him. But God, who made him and had 
need of him, knoweth. 



RENATUS 

Renatus was a Prince of Saxony that was but 
newly come to his princedom ; his father had died 
while he was a boy, and the realm had been ad- 
ministered by his father's brother, a Duke of high 
courage and prudence. The Duke was deeply 
anxious for the fate of the princedom and his 
nephew's fortunes, for they lived in troubled times ; 
the barons of the province were strong and haughty 
men, with little care for the Prince, and no thought 
of obedience ; each of them lived in his castle, 
upon a small realm of his own ; the people were 
much discontented with the rule of the barons, 
and the Duke saw plainly enough that if a prince 
could arise who could win the confidence of the 
people, the barons would have but little power 
left. Thus his care was so to bring up the Prince 
Renatus that he should understand how hard a 
task was before him ; but the boy, though quick 
of apprehension, was fond of pleasure and amuse- 
ment, and soon wearied of grave instructions ; so 
the Duke did not persist overmuch, but strove to 
make the little Prince love him and confide in him, 
hoping that, when the day of trial came, he might 
be apt to ask advice rather than act hastily and 
perhaps fooHshly ; but yet in this the Duke had 

not perfectly succeeded, as he was by nature grave 

127 



128 RENATUS 

and austere, and even his face seemed to have in 
it a sort of rebuke for hvely and Hght-minded 
persons. Still the Prince, though he was not at 
ease with the Duke, trusted him exceedingly, and 
thought him wise and good, even more than the 
Duke imagined. 

The days had been full of feasting and pageants, 
and Renatus was greatly excited and eager at 
finding himself in so great a place. He had borne 
himself with much courtesy and dignity in his 
receiving of embassies and such comphments ; he 
had, too, besides the sweet gifts of youth and 
beauty, a natural affectionateness, which led him 
to wish to please those about him ; and the Duke's 
heart was full of love and admiration for the grace- 
ful boy, though there lay in the back of his mind 
a shadow of fear ; and this grew very dark when 
he saw two of the most turbulent barons speaking 
together in a corner, with sidelong glances at the 
Prince, at one of the Court assemblies, and divined 
that they thought the boy would be but a pretty 
puppet in their hands. 

The custom was that the Prince, on the eve of 
his enthroning, should watch for two hours alone 
in the chapel of the castle, from eleven to one at 
night, and should there consecrate himself to God ; 
the guests of the evening were departed ; and a 
few minutes before eleven the Duke sate \vith the 
Prince in a httle room off the chapel, waiting till 
it was time for the Prince to enter the building. 
Renatus was in armour, as the custom was, with a 
white robe over all. He sate restlessly in a chair, 
and there was a mischievous and dancing light of 



RENATUS 129 

pleasure in his eye, that made the Duke doubly 
grave. The Duke, after some discourse of other 
matters, made a pause ; and then, saying that it 
was the last time that he should take the privilege 
of guardianship — to offer advice unless it were 
sought — said : " And now, Renatus, you know 
that I love you as a dear son ; and I would have 
you remember that all these things are but shows, 
and that there sits behind them a grave and holy 
presence of duty ; these pomps are but the signs 
that you are truly the Prince of this land ; and 
you must use your power well, and to God's glory ; 
for it is He that makes us to be what we are, and 
truly calls us thereto." Renatus heard him with 
a sort of courteous impatience, and then, with a 
smile, said : " Yes, dear uncle, I know it ; but 
the shows are very brave ; and you will forgive 
me if my head is full of them just now. Presently, 
when the pageants are all over, I shall settle down 
to be a sober prince enough. I think you do not 
trust me wholly in the matter — but I would not 
seem ungrateful," he added rather hastily, seeing 
the gravity in the Duke's face — " for indeed you 
have been as a true father to me." 

The Duke said no more at that time, for he cared 
not to give untimely advice, and a moment after, 
a bell began to toll in the silence, and the chaplain 
came habited to conduct the Prince to his chapel. 
So they went the three of them together. 

It was dark and still within the church ; in front 
of the altar-steps were set a faldstool and a chair, 
where the Duke might pray, or sit if he were weary ; 
two tall wax lights stood beside, and lit up the 

I 



130 RENATUS 

crimson cloth and the gold fringes, so that it seemed 
like a rare flower blossoming in the dark. A single 
light, in a silver lamp hung by a silver chain, burnt 
before the altar ; all else was dim ; but they could 
see the dark stalls of the choir, with their carven 
canopies, over which hung the banners of old 
knights, that moved softly to and fro ; beyond 
were the pillars of the aisles, glimmering faintly in 
a row. The roof and windov/s were dark, save 
where here and there a rib of stone or a tracery 
stood out very rich and dim. All about there was 
a kind of holy smell, of wood and carven stone and 
incense-smoke. 

The chaplain knelt beneath the altar ; and the 
Prince knelt down at the faldstool, the Duke beside 
him on the floor. And just as the old bell of the 
castle tolled the hour, and died away in a soft hum 
of sound, as sweet as honey, the chaplain said an 
ancient prayer, the purport of which was that the 
Christian must w^atch and pray ; that only the pure 
heart might see God ; and asking that the Prince 
might be blest with VN^isdom, as the Emperor Solo- 
mon was, to do according to the will of the Father. 

Then the chaplain and the Duke wdthdrev/ ; but 
as the Duke rose up, he laid his hand on the Prince's 
head and said, " God be with you, dear son, and 
open your eyes." And Renatus looked up at him 
and smiled. 

Then the Duke went back to the little room, 
and prayed abundantly. It was arranged that he 
should wait there until the Prince's vigil was over, 
when he would go to attend him forth ; and so the 
Prince was left by himself. 



RENATUS 131 

For a time Renatus prayed, gathering up the 
strength of his mind to pray earnestly ; but other 
thoughts kept creeping in, hke children peeping 
and beckoning from a door. So he rose up after 
a little, and looked about him ; and something of 
the solemnity of the night and the place came into 
his mind. 

Then, after a while, he sate, his armour clinking 
lightly as he moved ; and wrapping his robe about 
him — for it grew chill in the church — he thought 
of what had been and what should be. The time 
fiew fast ; and presently Renatus heard the great 
bell ring the hour of midnight ; so he knelt and 
prayed again, with all his might, that God w^ould 
bless him and open his eyes. 

Then he rose again to his feet ; and now the 
moon was risen and made a very pure and tender 
radiance through one of the high windows ; and 
Renatus, looking about him, was conscious of a 
thrill of fear that passed through him, as though 
there were some great presence near him in the 
gloom ; then his eyes fell on a little door on his 
right, opposite to the door by which they had 
entered, which he knew led out into the castle 
court ; but underneath the door, between it and 
the sill, there gleam^ed a line of very golden light, 
such as might come from a fire without. The 
Prince had no foolish terrors, as he was by nature 
courageous, and the holy place that he was in 
made him. feel secure. But the light, which now 
began to grow in clearness, and to stream, like a 
rippling flow of brightness, into the church, sur- 
prised him exceedingly. So he rose up and went 



132 RENATUS 

to the little door, expecting that he would find it 
closed ; but it opened to his hand. 

He had thought to see the dark court of the 
castle as he had often seen it, with its tall chimneys 
and battlements, and with lights in the windows. 
But to his amazement he saw that he was on the 
edge of a vast and dizzy space, so vast that he had 
not thought there could be anything in the world 
so great. The church and he seemed to float to- 
gether in the space, for the solid earth was all 
gone — and it came into his head that the great 
building in which he stood, so fair and high, was 
no larger than a mote that swims in the strong 
beams of the sun. The space was all misty and 
dim at first, but over it hung a light like the light 
of dawn, that seemed to gush from a place in the 
cloud, near at hand and yet leagues away. Then 
as his sight became more used to the place, he saw 
that it was all sloping upwards and downwards, and 
built up of great steps or stairs, that ran across the 
space and were lost at last in cloud ; and that the 
light came from the head of the steps. Then with 
a sudden shock of surprise he saw that there were 
persons kneeling on the steps ; and every moment 
his sight became clearer and clearer, so that he 
could see the persons nearest to him, their robes 
and hands, and even the very lineaments of their 
faces. 

Very near him there were three figures kneehng, 
not together in a group, but with some space be- 
tween them. And, in some way that he could not 
explain, he felt that all the three were unconscious 
both of each other and of himself. 



RENATUS 13 



o 



Looking intently upon them, he saw that they 
were kings, in royal robes. The nearest to him 
was an ancient man, with white hair ; he knelt 
very upright and strong ; his face was hke parch- 
ment, with heavy lines, but his eyes glowed like 
a fire. Renatus thought he had never seen so 
proud a look. He had an air of command, and 
Renatus seemed to know that he had been a warrior 
in his youth. In his hands he held a crown of fine 
golden work, filled with jewels of great rarity and 
price ; and the king held the crown as though he 
knew its worth ; he seemed, as it were, to be prof- 
fering it, but as a gift of mighty value, the worthiest 
thing that he had to offer. 

On a step below him at a little distance knelt the 
second ; he was a younger man, in the prime of 
life ; he had the look more of a student than a 
warrior, of one who was busied in many affairs, 
and who pondered earnestly over high matters of 
policy and state. He had a wiser face than the 
older man, but his brow was drawn by lines, as 
though he had often doubted of himself and others ; 
and he had a crown in one hand, which he held a 
little irresolutely, as though he half loved it, and 
were yet half wearied of it ; as though he was fain 
to lay it down, and yet not wholly glad to part 
with it. 

Then Renatus turned a little to the third ; and 
he was more richly apparelled than the others ; 
his hands were clasped in prayer ; and by his knee 
there lay a splendid diadem, an Emperor's crown, 
with few jewels, but each the price of a kingdom. 
And Renatus saw that he was very young, scarce 



134 RENATUS 

older than himself ; and that he had the most 
beautiful face he had ever seen, with large soft 
eyes, clear-cut features, and a mouth that looked 
both pure and strong ; but in his face there was 
such a passion of holiness and surrender, that 
Renatus fell to wondering what it was that a man 
could so adore. He was the only one of the three 
who looked, as it were, rapt out of himself ; and 
the crown lay beside him as if he had forgotten 
its very existence. 

Then there came upon the air a great sound of 
jubilant and tender music like the voice of silver 
trumpets — and the cloud began to lift and draw 
up on every side, and revealed at last, very far off 
and very high, yet strangely near and clear, a 
Throne at the head of the steps. But Renatus 
dared not look thereon, for he felt that the time 
was not come ; but he saw, as it were reflected 
in the eyes of the kings, that they looked upon 
a sight of awful splendour and mystery. Then 
he saw that the two that still held their 
crowns laid them down upon the ground with 
a sort of fearful haste, as though they were 
constrained ; but the youngest of the kings 
smiled, as though he were satisfied beyond his 
dearest ^\dsh. 

Then Renatus felt that somewhat was to be 
done too bright and holy for a mortal eye to be- 
hold, and so he drew back and softly closed the 
door ; and it was a pain to find himself within 
the dark church again ; it was as though he had 
lost the sight of something that a man might desire 
above all things to see — but he dared look no 



RENATUS 135 

longer ; and the music came again, but this time 
more urgently, in a storm of sound. 

Then Renatus went back to his place, that seemed 
to him very small and humble beside what he had 
seen outside. And all the pride was emptied out 
of his heart, for he knew that he had looked upon 
the truth, and that it was v\dder than he had 
dreamed ; and then he knelt and prayed that 
God would keep him humble and diligent and 
brave ; but then he grew ashamed of his prayer, 
for he remembered that, after all, he was but still 
praying for himself ; and he had a thought of the 
young Emperor's face, and he knew that there 
was something deeper and better still than humility 
and diligence and courage ; what it was he knew 
not ; but he thought that he had been, as it were, 
asking God for those fair things, like flower-blooms 
or jewels, which a man may wear for his own 
pride ; but that they must rather rise and blossom, 
like plants out of a rich soil. So he ended by 
praying that God would empty him of all un- 
worthy thoughts, and fill him full of that good 
and great thing, which, in the Gospel story, 
Martha went near to miss, but Mary certainly 
divined. 

That was a blessed hour, to the thought of which 
Renatus afterwards often turned in darker and 
more weary days. But it drew s^vvdftly to an end, 
and as he knelt, the bell beat one, and his vigil 
was over. 

Presently the Duke came to attend him back ; 
and Renatus could not speak of the vision, but 
only told the Duke that he had seen a wonderful 



136 RENATUS 

thing, and he added a few words of grateful love, 
holding the Duke's hand close in his own. 

On the next day, before Renatus came to be en- 
throned, the barons came to do him homage ; and 
Renatus, asking God to give him words that he 
might say what was in his heart, spoke to them, 
the Duke standing by ; he said that he well knew 
that it appeared strange that one so young as 
himself should receive the homage of those who 
were older and wiser and more strong, adding : 
" But I beheve that I am truly called, under God, 
to rule this land for the welfare of all that dwell 
therein, and I will rule it with diligence. Nay — 
for it is not well that a land should have many 
masters — I purpose that none shall rule it but 
myself, under God." And at that the barons 
looked upon one another, but Renatus, leaning a 
httle forward, with his hand upon his sword-hilt, 
said : "I think, my Lords, that there be some 
here that are saying to themselves, He hath learnt 
his lesson well, and I hope that it may be seen 
that it is so — but it is God and not man who hath 
put it into my heart to say this ; it is from Him 
that I receive this throne. Counsel will I ask, 
and that gladly ; but remembering the account 
that I must one day make, I will rule this realm 
for the welfare of the people thereof, and I will 
have all men do their parts ; so see that your 
homage be of the heart and not of the hps, for 
it is to God that you make it, and not to me, who 
am indeed unworthy ; but He that hath set me 
in this place will strengthen my hands. I have 
spoken this," he said, " not wilhngly ; but I 



RENATUS 137 

would have no one mistake my purpose in the 
matter." 

Then the barons came silently to do obeisance ; 
and so Renatus came to his own ; but more of 
him I must not here say, save that he ruled his 
realm wisely and well, and ever gave God the 
glory. 



THE SLYPE HOUSE 

In the town of Garchester, close to St. Peter's 
Church, and near the river, stood a dark old house 
called the Slype House, from a narrow passage of 
that name that ran close to it, down to a bridge 
over the stream. The house showed a front of 
mouldering and discoloured stone to the street, 
pierced by sm^all \\dndovv^s, like a monastery ; and 
indeed, it was formerly inhabited by a college of 
priests who had served the Church. It abutted 
at one angle upon the aisle of the church, and 
there v/as a casement window that looked out 
from a room in the house, formerly the infirmary, 
into the aisle ; it had been so built that any priest 
that was sick might hear the Mass from his bed, 
without descending into the church. Behind the 
house lay a little garden, closely grown up with 
trees and tall weeds, that ran down to the stream. 
In the wall that gave on the water, was a small 
door that admitted to an old timbered bridge 
that crossed the stream, and had a barred gate on 
the further side, which was rarely seen open ; 
though if a man had watched attentively he might 
sometimes have seen a small lean person, much 
bowed and with a halting gait, slip out very quietly 
about dusk, and v/alk, with his eyes cast down, 

among the shadowy byv/ays. 

138 



THE SLYPE HOUSE 139 

The name of the man who thus dwelt in the 
Slype House, as it appeared in the roll of bur- 
gesses, was Anthony Purvis. He was of an ancient 
family, and had inherited wealth. A word must 
be said of his childhood and youth. He was a 
sickly child, an only son, his father a man of sub- 
stance, who Hved very easily in the country ; his 
mother had died when he was quite a child, and 
this sorrow had been borne very heavily by his 
father, who had loved her tenderly, and after her 
death had become morose and sullen, withdrawing 
himself from all company and exercise, and brood- 
ing angrily over his loss, as though God had de- 
termined to vex him. He had never cared much 
for the child, who had been peevish and fretful ; 
and the boy's presence had done little but remind 
him of the wife he had lost ; so that the child had 
lived alone, nourishing his own fancies, and read- 
ing much in a library of curious books that was 
in the house. The boy's health had been too 
tender for him to go to school ; but when he was 
eighteen, he seemed stronger, and his father sent 
him to a university, more for the sake of being 
relieved of the boy's presence than for his good. 
And there, being unused to the society of his equals, 
he had been much flouted and despised for his 
feeble frame ; till a certain bitter ambition sprang 
up in his mind, like a poisonous flower, to gain 
power and make himself a name ; and he had 
determined that as he could not be loved he might 
still be feared ; so he bided his time in bitterness, 
making great progress in his studies ; then, when 
those days were over, he departed eagerly, and 



140 THE SLYPE HOUSE 

sought and obtained his father's leave to betake 
himself to a university of Italy, where he fell into 
somewhat evil hands ; for he made a friendship 
with an old doctor of the college, who feared not 
God and thought ill of man, and spent all his time 
in dark researches into the evil secrets of nature, 
the study of poisons that have enmity to the life 
of man, and many other hidden works of dark- 
ness, such as intercourse \vith spirits of evil, and 
the black influences that lie in wait for the soul ; 
and he found Anthony an apt pupil. There he 
lived for some years till he was nearly thirty, sel- 
dom visiting his home, and writing but formal 
letters to his father, who supplied him gladly \\ith 
a small revenue, so long as he kept apart and 
troubled him not. 

Then his father had died, and Anthony came 
home to take up his inheritance, which was a 
plentiful one ; he sold his land, and \dsiting the 
town of Garchester, by chance, for it lay near his 
home, he had lighted upon the Slype House, which 
lay very desolate and gloomy ; and as he needed 
a large place for his instruments and devices, he 
had bought the house, and had now hved there for 
twenty years in great lonehness, but not ill-content. 

To serve him he had none but a man and his 
wife, who w^ere quiet and simple people and asked 
no questions ; the wife cooked his meals, and kept 
the rooms, where he slept and read, clean and 
neat ; the man moved his machines for him, and 
arranged his phials and instruments, having a hght 
touch and a serviceable memory. 

The door of the house that gave on the street 



THE SLYPE HOUSE 141 

opened into a hall ; to the right was a kitchen, 
and a pair of rooms where the man and his wife 
lived. On the left was a large room running 
through the house ; the windows on to the street 
were walled up, and the windows at the back 
looked on the garden, the trees of which grew 
close to the casements, making the room dark, 
and in a breeze rustling their leaves or leafless 
branches against the panes. In this room Anthony 
had a furnace with bellows, the smoke of which 
discharged itself into the chimney ; and here he 
did much of his work, making mechanical toys, 
as a clock to measure the speed of wind or water, 
a httle chariot that ran a few yards by itself, 
a puppet that moved its arms and laughed — and 
other things that had wiled away his idle hours ; 
the room was filled up with dark lumber, in a 
sort of order that would have looked to a stranger 
like disorder, but so that Anthony could lay his 
hand on all that he needed. From the hall, which 
was paved with stone, went up the stairs, very 
strong and broad, of massive oak ; under which 
was a postern that gave on the garden ; on the 
floor above was a room w^here Anthony slept, 
which again had its windows to the street boarded 
up, for he was a light sleeper, and the morning 
sounds of the awakening city disturbed him.' 

The room was hung with a dark arras, sprinkled 
with red flowers ; he slept in a great bed with 
black curtains to shut out all light ; the windows 
looked into the garden ; but on the left of the 
bed, which stood Vvith its head to the street, was 
an alcove, behind the hangings, containing the 



142 THE SLYPE HOUSE 

window that gave on the church. On the same 
floor were three other rooms ; in one of these, 
looking on the garden, Anthony had his meals. 
It was a plain panelled room.. Next was a room 
where he read, filled with books, also looking on 
the garden ; and next to that was a little room 
of which he alone had the key. This room he 
kept locked, and no one set foot in it but himself. 
There was one more room on this floor, set apart 
for a guest who never came, with a great bed and 
a press of oak. And that looked on the street. 
Above, there was a row of plain plastered rooms, 
in which stood furniture for which Anthony had 
no use, and many crates in which his machines and 
phials came to him ; this floor was seldom visited, 
except by the man, who sometimes came to put 
a box there ; and the spiders had it to themselves ; 
except for a little room where stood an optic glass 
through which on clear nights Anthony somxCtimes 
looked at the m.oon and stars, if there was any odd 
misadventure among them., such as an eclipse ; or 
when a fiery-tailed comet went his way silently 
in the heavens, coming from none might say whence 
and going none knew v/hither, on some strange 
errand of God. 

Anthony had but two friends who ever came to 
see him. One was an old physician who had 
ceased to practise his trade, which indeed was 
never abundant, and who would sometimes drink 
a glass of wine v/ith Anthony, and engage in curious 
talk of men's bodies and diseases, or look at one 
of Anthony's toys. Anthony had come to know 
him by having called him in to cure some ailment, 



THE SLYPE HOUSE 143 

which needed a surgical knife ; and that had made 
a kind of friendship between them ; but Anthony 
had httle need thereafter to consult him about 
his health, which indeed was now settled enough, 
though he had but little vigour ; and he knew 
enough of drugs to cure himself when he v/as ill. 
The other friend was a foolish priest of the college, 
that made belief to be a student but was none, 
who thought Anthony a very wise and mighty 
person, and listened with open mouth and eyes 
to all that he said or showed him. This priest, 
v/ho was fond of wonders, had introduced himself 
to Anthony by making believe to borrow a volume 
of him ; and then had grown proud of the acquaint- 
ance, and bragged greatly of it to his friends, 
mixing up much that was fanciful with a little 
that was true. But the result was that gossip 
spread wide about Anthony, and he was held in 
the town to be a very fearful person, who could 
do strange mischief if he had a mind to ; Anthony 
never cared to walk abroad, for he was of a shy 
habit, and disliked to meet the eyes of his fellows ; 
but if he did go about, m_en began to look curi- 
ously after him. as he went by, shook their heads 
and talked together with a dark pleasure, while 
children fled before his face and women feared 
him ; all of which pleased Anthony mightily, if 
the truth were told ; for at the bottom of his rest- 
less and eager spirit lay a deep vanity unseen, like 
a lake in woods ; he hungered not indeed for fam.e, 
but for repute — monstrari digito, as the poet has it ; 
and he cared little in what repute he was held, so 
long as men thought him great and marvellous ; 



144 THE SLYPE HOUSE 

and as he could not win renown by brave deeds 
and words, he was rejoiced to win it by keep- 
ing up a certain darkness and mystery about his 
ways and doings ; and this was very dear to him, 
so that when the silly priest called him. Seer and 
Wizard, he frowned and looked sideways ; but he 
laughed in his heart and was glad. 

Now, when Anthony was near his fiftieth year, 
there fell on him a heaviness of spirit which daily 
increased upon him. He began to question of his 
end and what lay beyond. He had always made 
pretence to mock at religion, and had grown to be- 
lieve that in death the soul was extinguished like 
a burnt-out flame. He began, too, to question of 
his life and what he had done. He had made a 
few toys, he had filled vacant hours, and he had 
gained an ugly kind of fame — and this was all. 
Was he so certain, he began to think, after all, 
that death was the end ? Were there not, perhaps, 
in the vast house of God, rooms and chambers 
beyond that in which he was set for awhile to 
pace to and fro ? About this time he began to 
read in a Bible that had lain dusty and unopened 
on a shelf. It was his mother's book, and he 
found therein many little tokens of her presence. 
Here was a verse underlined ; at some gracious 
passages the page was much fingered and worn ; 
in one place there were stains that looked like 
the mark of tears ; then again, in one page, there 
was a small tress of hair, golden hair, tied in a 
paper with a name across it, that seemed to be 
the name of a little sister of his mother's that 
died a child ; and again there were a few withered 



THE SLYPE HOUSE 145 

flowers, like little sad ghosts, stuck through a 
paper on which was written his father's name — 
the name of the sad, harsh, silent man whom An- 
thony had feared with all his heart. Had those 
two, indeed, on some day of summer, walked to 
and fro, or sate in some woodland corner, whisper- 
ing sweet words of love together ? Anthony felt 
a sudden hunger of the heart for a woman's love, 
for tender words to soothe his sadness, for the 
laughter and kisses of children — and he began to 
ransack his mind for memories of his mother ; he 
could remember being pressed to her heart one 
morning when she lay abed, with her fragrant hair 
falling about him. The worst was that he must 
bear his sorrow alone, for there were none to whom 
he could talk of such things. The doctor was as 
dry as an old bunch of herbs, and as for the priest, 
Anthony was ashamed to show anything but con- 
tempt and pride in his presence. 

For relief he began to turn to a branch of his 
studies that he had long disused ; this was a fear- 
ful commerce with the unseen spirits. Anthony 
could remember having practised some experi- 
ments of this kind with the old Italian doctor ; 
but he remembered them with a kind of disgust, 
for they seemed to him but a sort of deadly jug- 
gling ; and such dark things as he had seen seemed 
like a dangerous sport with unclean and coltish 
beings, more brute-like than human. Yet now he 
read in his curious books with care, and studied 
the tales of necromancers, who had indeed seemed 
to have some power over the souls of men de- 
parted. But the old books gave him but Httle 

K 



146 THE SLYPE HOUSE 

faith, and a kind of angry disgust at the things 
attempted. And he began to think that the horror 
in which such men as made these books abode, was 
not more than the dark shadow cast on the mirror 
of the soul by their own desperate imaginings and 
timorous excursions. 

One day, a Sunday, he was strangely sad and 
heavy ; he could settle to nothing, but threw 
book after book aside, and when he turned to some 
work of construction, his hand seemed to have 
lost its cunning. It was a grey and sullen day in 
October ; a warm wet wind came buffeting up 
from the west, and roared in the chimneys and 
eaves of the old house. The shrubs in the garden 
plucked themselves hither and thither as though 
in pain. Anthony walked to and fro after his 
midday meal, which he had eaten hastily and 
without savour ; at last, as though with a sudden 
resolution, he went to a secret cabinet and got 
out a key ; and with it he went to the door of 
the little room that was ever locked. 

He stopped at the threshold for a while, looking 
hither and thither ; and then he suddenly un- 
locked it and went in, closing and locking it behind 
him. The room was as dark as night, but Anthony 
going softly, his hands before him, went to a corner 
and got a tinder-box which lay there, and made a 
flame. 

A small dark room appeared, hung \\ith a black 
tapestry ; the window was heavily shuttered and 
curtained ; in the centre of the room stood what 
looked like a small altar, painted black ; the floor 
was all bare, but with white marks upon it, half 



THE SLYPE HOUSE 147 

effaced. Anthony looked about the room, glancing 
sidelong, as though in some kind of doubt ; his 
breath went and came quickly, and he looked paler 
than was his wont. 

Presently, as though reassured by the silence and 
calm of the place, he went to a tall press that stood 
in a corner, which he opened, and took from it 
certain things — a dish of metal, some small leathern 
bags, a large lump of chalk, and a book. He laid 
all but the chalk down on the altar, and then open- 
ing the book, read in it a little ; and then he went 
with the chalk and drew certain marks upon the 
floor, first making a circle, which he went over 
again and again with anxious care ; at times he 
went back and peeped into the book as though 
uncertain. Then he opened the bags, which seemed 
to hold certain kinds of powder, this dusty, that 
in grains ; he ran them through his hands, and 
then poured a little of each into his dish, and 
mixed them with his hands. Then he stopped 
and looked about him. Then he walked to a place 
in the wall on the further side of the altar from 
the door, and drew the arras carefully aside, dis- 
closing a little alcove in the wall ; into this he 
looked fearfully, as though he was afraid of what 
he might see. 

In the alcove, which was all in black, appeared 
a small shelf, that stood but a little way out from 
the wall. Upon it, gleaming very white against 
the black, stood the skull of a man, and on either 
side of the skull were the bones of a man's hand. 
It looked to him, as he gazed on it with a sort of 
curious disgust, as though a dead man had come 



148 THE SLYPE HOUSE 

up to the surface of a black tide, and was prepar- 
ing presently to leap out. On either side stood 
two long silver candlesticks, very dark with dis- 
use ; but instead of holding candles, they were 
fitted at the top with fiat metal dishes ; and in 
these he poured some of his powders, mixing them 
as before with his fingers. Between the candle- 
sticks and behind the skull v/as an old and dark 
picture, at which he gazed for a time, holding his 
taper on high. The picture represented a man 
fleeing in a kind of furious haste from a wood, 
his hands spread wide, and his eyes staring out of 
the picture ; behind him everywhere was the wood, 
above which was a star in the sky — and out of the 
wood leaned a strange pale horned thing, very 
dim. The horror in the man's face was skilfully 
painted, and Anthony felt a shudder pass through 
his veins. He knew not what the picture meant ; 
it had been given to him by the old Italian, who 
had smiled a wicked smile when he gave it, and 
told him that it had a very great virtue. When 
Anthony had asked him of the subject of the pic- 
ture, the old Italian had said, " Oh, it is as appears ; 
he hath been where he ought not, and he hath 
seen somewhat he doth not like." When Anthony 
would fain have known more, and especially what 
the thing was that leaned out of the wood, the 
old Italian had smiled cruelly and said, " Know 
you not ? Well, you will know some day when 
you have seen him ; " and never a word more would 
he say. 

When Anthony had put all things in order, he 
opened the book at a certain place, and laid it 



THE SLYPE HOUSE 149 

upon the altar ; and then it seemed as though his 
courage failed him, for he drew the curtain again 
over the alcove, unlocked the door, set the tinder- 
box and the candle back in their place, and softly 
left the room. 

He was very restless all the evening. He took 
down books from the shelves, turned them over, 
and put them back again. He addressed himself 
to some unfinished work, but soon threw it aside ; 
he paced up and down, and spent a long time, 
with his hands clasped behind him, looking out 
into the desolate garden, where a still, red sunset 
burnt behind the leafless trees. He was like a man 
who has made up his mind to a grave decision, 
and shrinks back upon the brink. When his food 
was served he could hardly touch it, and he drank 
no wine as his custom was to do, but only water, 
saying to himself that his head must be clear. 
But in the evening he went to his bedroom, and 
searched for something in a press there ; he found 
at last what he was searching for, and unfolded 
a long black robe, looking gloomily upon it, as 
though it aroused unv/elcome thoughts ; while he 
was pondering, he heard a hum of music behind 
the arras ; he put the robe down, and stepped 
through the hangings, and stood awhile in the 
little oriel that looked down into the church. Ves- 
pers were proceeding ; he saw the holy lights 
dimly through the dusty panes, and heard the 
low preluding of the organ ; then, solemn and 
slow, rose the sound of a chanted psalm on the air ; 
he carefully unfastened the casement which opened 
inward and unclosed it, standing for a while to 



150 THE SLYPE HOUSE 

listen, while the air, fragrant with incense smoke, 
drew into the room along the vaulted roof. There 
were but a few worshippers in the church, who 
stood below him ; two lights burnt stilly upon 
the altar, and he saw distinctly the thin hands of 
a priest who held a book close to his face. He 
had not set foot within a church for many years, 
and the sight and sound drew his mind back to 
his childhood's days. At last with a sigh he put 
the window to very softly, and went to his study, 
where he made pretence to read, till the hour came 
when he was wont to retire to his bed. He sent 
his servant away, but instead of lying down, he 
sate, looking upon a parchment, which he held in 
his hand, while the bells of the city slowly told 
out the creeping hours. 

At last, a few minutes before midnight, he rose 
from his place ; the house was now all silent, and 
without the night was very still, as though all 
things slept tranquilly. He opened the press and 
took from it the black robe, and put it round him, 
so that it covered him from head to foot, and 
then gathered up the parchment, and the key of 
the locked room, and went softly out, and so came 
to the door. This he undid with a kind of secret 
and awestruck haste, locking it behind him. Once 
inside the room, he wrestled awhile with a strong 
aversion to what was in his mind to do, and stood 
for a moment, listening intently, as though he 
expected to hear some sound. But the room was 
still, except for the faint biting of some small 
creature in the wainscot. 

Then ^^-ith a swift motion he took up the tinder- 



THE SLYPE HOUSE 151 

box and made a light ; he drew aside the curtain 
that hid the alcove ; he put fire to the powder in 
the candlesticks, which at first spluttered, and 
then swiftly kindling sent up a thick smoky flame, 
fragrant with drugs, burning hotly and red. Then 
he came back to the altar ; cast a swift glance 
round him to see that all was ready ; put fire to 
the powder on the altar, and in a low and inward 
voice began to recite words from the book, and 
from the parchment which he held in his hand ; 
once or twice he glanced fearfully at the skull, 
and the hands which gleamed luridly through the 
smoke ; the figures in the picture wavered in the 
heat ; and now the powders began to burn clear, 
and throw up a steady light ; and still he read, 
sometimes turning a page, until at last he made 
an end ; and drawing something from a silver box 
which lay beside the book, he dropped it in the 
flame, and looked straight before him to see what 
might befall. The thing that fell in the flame 
burned up brightly, with a little leaping of sparks, 
but soon it died down ; and there was a long silence, 
in the room, a breathless silence, which, to An- 
thony's disordered mind, was not Uke the silence 
of emptiness, but such silence as may be heard 
when unseen things are crowding quietly to a 
closed door, expecting it to be opened, and as it 
w^ere holding each other back. 

Suddenly, between him and the picture, ap- 
peared for a moment a pale light, as of moonUght, 
and then with a horror which words cannot attain 
to describe, Anthony saw a face hang in the air 
a few feet from him, that looked in his own eyes 



152 THE SLYPE HOUSE 

with a sort of intent fury, as though to spring 
upon him if he turned either to the right hand 
or to the left. His knees tottered beneath him, 
and a sweat of icy coldness sprang on his brow ; 
there followed a sound like no sound that Anthony 
had ever dreamed of hearing ; a sound that was 
near and yet remote, a sound that was low and 
yet charged with power, like the groaning of a 
voice in grievous pain and anger, that strives to 
be free and yet is helpless. And then Anthony 
knew that he had indeed opened the door that 
looks into the other world, and that a deadly thing 
that held him in enmity had looked out. His 
reeling brain still told him that he was safe where 
he was, but that he must not step or fall outside 
the circle ; but how he should resist the power 
of the v/icked face he knew not. He tried to frame 
a prayer in his heart ; but there swept such a fury 
of hatred across the face that he dared not. So 
he closed his eyes and stood diz:zily waiting to 
fall, and knowing that if he fell it was the end. 

Suddenly, as he stood with closed eyes, he felt 
the horror of the spell relax ; he opened his eyes 
again, and saw that the face died out upon the 
air, becoming first white and then thin, like the 
husk that stands on a rush when a fly draws itself 
from its skin, and floats away into the sunshine. 

Then there fell a low and sweet music upon the 
air, like a concert of flutes and harps, very far 
away. And then suddenly, in a sweet clear radi- 
ance, the face of his mother, as she lived in his 
mind, appeared in the space, and looked at him 
with a kind of heavenly love ; then beside the face 



THE SLYPE HOUSE 153 

appeared two thin hands which seemed to wave 
a blessing towards him, which flowed Hke healing 
into his soul. 

The relief from the horror, and the flood of 
tenderness that came into his heart, made him 
reckless. The tears came into his eyes, not in a 
rising film, but a flood hot and large. He took a 
step forwards round the altar ; but as he did so, the 
vision disappeared, the lights shot up into a flare 
and went out ; the house seemed to be suddenly 
shaken ; in the darkness he heard the rattle of 
bones, and the clash of metal, and Anthony fell 
all his length upon the ground and lay as one 
dead. 

But while he thus lay, there came to him in 
some secret cell of the mind a dreadful vision, 
w^hich he could only dimly remember afterwards 
with a fitful horror. He thought that he was 
walking in the cloister of some great house or 
college, a cool place, with a pleasant garden in the 
court. He paced up and down, and each time that 
he did so, he paused a little before a great door at 
the end, a huge blind portal, with much carving 
about it, which he somehow knew he was for- 
bidden to enter. Nevertheless, each time that he 
came to it, he felt a strong wish, that constantly 
increased, to set foot therein. Now in the dream 
there fell on him a certain heaviness, and the 
shadow of a cloud fell over the court, and struck 
the sunshine out of it. And at last he made up 
his mind that he would enter. He pushed the 
door open with much difficulty, and found himself 
in a long blank passage, very damp and chilly, 



154 THE SLYPE HOUSE 

but with a glimmering light ; he walked a few 
paces down it. The flags underfoot were slimy, 
and the walls streamed with damp. He then 
thought that he would return ; but the great door 
was closed behind him, and he could not open it. 
This made him very fearful ; and while he con- 
sidered what he should do, he saw a tall and angry- 
looking man approaching very swiftly down the 
passage. As he turned to face him, the other 
came straight to him, and asked him very sternly 
what he did there ; to which Anthony replied that 
he had found the door open. To which the other 
replied that it was fast now, and that he must 
go forward. He seized Anthony as he spoke by 
the arm, and urged him down the passage. An- 
thony would fain have resisted, but he felt like a 
child in the grip of a giant, and went forward in 
great terror and perplexity. Presently they came 
to a door in the side of the wall, and as they passed 
it, there stepped out an ugly shadowy thing, the 
nature of which he could not clearly discern, and 
marched softly behind them. Soon they came to 
a turn in the passage, and in a moment the way 
stopped on the brink of a dark well, that seemed 
to go down a long way into the earth, and out 
of which came a cold fetid air, with a hollow sound 
Hke a complaining voice. Anthony drew back as 
far as he could from the pit, and set his back to 
the wall, his companion letting go of him. But 
he could not go backward, for the thing behind 
him was in the passage, and barred the way, creep- 
ing slowly nearer. Then Anthony was in a great 
agony of mind, and waited for the end. 



THE SLYPE HOUSE 155 

But while he waited, there came some one very 
softly down the passage and drew near ; and the 
other, who had led him to the place, waited, as 
though ill-pleased to be interrupted ; it was too 
murky for Anthony to see the new-comer, but 
he knew in some way that he was a friend. The 
stranger came up to them, and spoke in a low 
voice to the man who had drawn Anthony thither, 
as though pleading for something ; and the man 
answered angrily, but yet with a certain dark 
respect, and seemed to argue that he was acting 
in his right, and might not be interfered with. 
Anthony could not hear what they said, they spoke 
so low, but he guessed the sense, and knew that 
it was himself of whom they discoursed, and list- 
ened wdth a fearful wonder to see which would 
prevail. The end soon came, for the tall man, 
who had brought him there, broke out into a great 
storm of passion ; and Anthony heard him say, 
" He hath yielded himself to his own wdll ; and 
he is mine here ; so let us make an end." Then 
the stranger seemed to consider ; and then with 
a quiet courage, and in a soft and silvery voice 
like that of a child, said, " I would that you would 
have yielded to my prayer ; but as you will not, 
I have no choice." And he took his hand from 
under the cloak that wrapped him, and held some- 
thing out ; then there came a great roaring out 
of the pit, and a zigzag flame flickered in the dark. 
Then in a moment the tall man and the shadow 
were gone ; Anthony could not see whither they 
w^ent, and he would have thanked the stranger ; 
but the other put his finger to his lip as though 



156 THE SLYPE HOUSE 

to order silence, and pointed to the way he had 
come, saying, " Make haste and go back ; for they 
will return anon with others ; you know not how 
dear it hath cost me." Anthony could see the 
stranger's face in the gloom, and he was surprised 
to see it so youthful ; but he saw also that tears 
stood in the eyes of the stranger, and that some- 
thing dark like blood trickled down his brow ; 
yet he looked very lovingly at him. So Anthony 
made haste to go back, and found the door ajar ; 
but as he reached it, he heard a horrible din behind 
him, of cries and screams ; and it was with a sense 
of gratitude, that he could not put into words, 
but v>^hich filled all his heart, that he found himself 
back in the cloister again. And then the vision 
all fled away, and with a shock coming to himself, 
he found that he was lying in his own room ; and 
then he knew that a battle had been fought 
out over his soul, and that the evil had not 
prevailed. 

He was cold and aching in every umb ; the room 
was silent and dark, with the heavy smell of the 
burnt drugs all about it. Anthony crept to the 
door, and opened it ; locked it again, and made 
his way in the dark very feebly to his bed-chamber ; 
he had just the strength to get into his bed, and 
then all his life seemed to ebb from him, and he 
lay, and thought that he was dying. Presently 
from without there came the crying of cocks, and 
a bell beat the hour of four ; and after that, in his 
vigil of weakness, it was strange to see the light 
glimmer in the cre\dces, and to hear the awakening 
birds that in the garden bushes took up, one after 



THE SLYPE HOUSE 157 

another, their slender piping song, till all the choir 
cried together. 

But Anthony felt a strange peace in his heart ; 
and he had a sense, though he could not say why, 
that it was as once in his childhood, when he was 
ill, and his mother had sate softly by him while 
he slept. 

So he waited, and in spite of his mortal weakness 
that was a blessed hour. 

When his man came to rouse him in the morning, 
Anthony said that he believed that he was very 
ill, that he had had a fall, and that the old doctor 
must be fetched to him. The man looked so strangely 
upon him, that Anthony knew that he had some 
fear upon his mind. Presently the doctor was 
brought, and Anthony answered such questions as 
were put to him, in a faint voice, saying, " I was 
late at my work, and I slipped and fell." The 
doctor, who looked troubled, gave directions ; and 
when he went away he heard his man behind the 
door asking the doctor about the strange storm 
in the night, that had seemed Hke an earthquake, 
or as if a thunderbolt had struck the house. But 
the doctor said very gruffly, "It is no time to talk 
thus, when your master is sick to death." But 
Anthony knew in himself that he would not 
die yet. 

It was long ere he was restored to a measure of 
health ; and indeed he never rightly recovered 
the use of his Hmbs ; the doctor held that he had 
suffered some stroke of pals}^ ; at which Anthony 
smiled a little, and made no answer. 

When he was well enough to creep to and fro. 



158 THE SLYPE HOUSE 

he went sadly to the dark room, and with much 
pain and weakness carried the furniture out of it. 
The picture he cut in pieces and burnt ; and the 
candles and dishes, with the book, he cast into 
a deep pool in the stream ; the bones he buried in 
the earth ; the hangings he stored away for his 
own funeral. 

Anthony never entered his workroom again ; but 
day after day he sate in his chair, and read a little, 
but mostly in the Bible ; he made a friend of a 
very wise old priest, to whom he opened all his 
heart, and to whom he conveyed much money 
to be bestowed on the poor ; there was a great 
calm in his spirit, which was soon written in his 
face, in spite of his pain, for he often suffered 
sorely ; but he told the priest that something, 
he knew not certainly what, seemed to dwell by 
him, waiting patiently for his coming ; and so 
Anthony awaited his end. 



OUT OF THE SEA 

It was about ten of the clock on a November 
morning in the Httle village of Blea-on-the-Sands. 
The hamlet was made up of some thirty houses, 
which clustered together on a low rising ground. 
The place was very poor, but some old merchant 
of bygone days had built in a pious mood a large 
church, which was now too great for the needs of 
the place ; the nave had been unroofed in a heavy 
gale, and there was no money to repair it, so that 
it had fallen to decay, and the tower was joined 
to the choir by roofless walls. This was a sore 
trial to the old priest. Father Thomas, who had 
grown grey there ; but he had no art in gathering 
money, which he asked for in a shamefaced way ; 
and the vicarage was a poor one, hardly enough 
for the old man's needs. So the church lay 
desolate. 

The village stood on what must once have been 
an island ; the little river Reddy, which runs 
down to the sea, there forking into two channels 
on the landward side ; towards the sea the ground 
was bare, full of sand-hills covered with a short 
grass. Towards the land was a small wood of 
gnarled trees, the boughs of which were all brushed 
smooth by the gales ; looking landward there was 

the green fiat, in which the river ran, rising into 

159 



i6o OUT OF THE SEA 

low hills ; hardly a house was visible save one or 
two lonely farms ; two or three church towers 
rose above the hills at a long distance away. In- 
deed Blea was much cut off from the world ; there 
was a bridge over the stream on the west side, but 
over the other channel was no bridge, so that to 
fare eastward it was requisite to go in a boat. To 
seaward there were wide sands, when the tide was 
out ; when it was in, it came up nearly to the end 
of the village street. The people were mostly 
fishermen, but there were a few farmers and lab- 
ourers ; the boats of the fishermen lay to the east 
side of the village, near the river channel which 
gave some draught of water ; and the channel was 
marked out by big black stakes and posts that 
straggled out over the sands, like awkward leaning 
figures, to the sea's brim. 

Father Thomas lived in a small and ancient 
brick house near the church, with a little garden 
of herbs attached. He was a kindly man, much 
worn by age and weather, with a wise heart, and 
he loved the quiet life with his small flock. This 
morning he had come out of his house to look 
abroad, before he settled down to the making of 
his sermon. He looked out to sea, and saw with 
a shadow of sadness the black outline of a wreck 
that had come ashore a week before, and over 
which the white waves were now breaking. The wind 
blew steadily from the north-east, and had a bitter 
poisonous chill in it, which it doubtless drew from 
the fields of the upper ice. The day was dark and 
overhung, not with cloud, but with a kind of dreary 
vapour that shut out the sun. Father Thomas 



OUT OF THE SEA i6i 

shuddered at the wind, and drew his patched cloak 
round him. As he did so, he saw three figures 
come up to the vicarage gate. It was not a com- 
mon thing for him to have visitors in the morning, 
and he saw with surprise that they were old Master 
John Grimston, the richest man in the place, half 
farmer and half fisherman, a dark surly old man ; 
his wife, Bridget, a timid and frightened woman, 
who found life with her harsh husband a difficult 
business, in spite of their wealth, which, for a 
place hke Blea, was great ; and their son Henry, 
a silly shambling man of forty, who was his father's 
butt. The three walked silently and heavily, as 
though they came on a sad errand. 

Father Thomas went briskly down to meet them, 
and greeted them with his accustomed cheerful- 
ness. " And what may I do for you ? " he said. 
Old Master Grimston made a sort of gesture with 
his head as though his wife should speak ; and 
she said in a low and somewhat husky voice, with 
a rapid utterance, " We have a matter, Father, 
we would ask you about — are you at leisure ? " 
Father Thomas said, " Ay, I am ashamed to be 
not more busy ! Let us go within the house." 
They did so ; and even in the little distance to 
the door, the Father thought that his visitors 
behaved themselves very strangely. They peered 
round from left to right, and once or twice Master 
Grimston looked sharply behind them, as though 
they were followed. They said nothing but " Ay " 
and " No " to the Father's talk, and bore them- 
selves like people with a sore fear on their backs. 
Father Thomas made up his mind that it was some 

L 



i62 OUT OF THE SEA 

question of money, for nothing else was wont to 
move Master Grimston's mind. So he had them 
into his parlour and gave them seats, and then 
there was a silence, while the two men continued 
to look furtively about them, and the goodwife 
sate with her eyes upon the priest's face. Father 
Thomas knew not what to make of this, till Master 
Grimston said harshly, " Come, wife, tell the tale 
and make an end ; we must not take up the 
Father's time." 

" I hardly know how to say it. Father," said 
Bridget, " but a strange and evil thing has be- 
fallen us ; there is something come to our house, 
and we know not what it is — but it brings a fear 
with it." A sudden paleness came over her face, 
and she stopped, and the three exchanged a glance 
in which terror was visibly written. Master Grim- 
ston looked over his shoulder swiftly, and made 
as though to speak, yet only swallowed in his 
throat ; but Henry said suddenly, in a loud and 
woeful voice : "It is an evil beast out of the sea." 
And then there followed a drea.dful silence, while 
Father Thomas felt a sudden fear leap up in his 
heart, at the contagion of the fear that he saw 
written on the faces round him. But he said 
with all the cheerfulness he could muster, " Come, 
friends, let us not begin to talk of sea-beasts ; we 
must have the whole tale. Mistress Grimston, I 
must hear the story — be content — nothing can 
touch us here." The three seemed to draw a 
faint content from his words, and Bridget began : — 
" It was the day of the wreck. Father. John 
was up betimes, before the dawn ; he walked out 



OUT OF THE SEA 163 

early to the sands, and Henry with him — and they 
were the first to see the wreck — was not that it ? " 
At these words the father and son seemed to ex- 
change a very smft and secret look, and both grew 
pale. " John told me there was a wreck ashore, 
and they went presently and roused the rest of 
the village ; and all that day they were out, saving 
what could be saved. Two sailors were found, 
both dead and pitifully battered by the sea, and 
they were buried, as you knov/, Father, in the 
churchyard next day ; John came back about dusk 
and Henry with him, and we sate dov/n to our 
supper. John was telling me about the wreck, as 
we sate beside the fire, when Henry, who was 
sitting apart, rose up and cried out suddenly, 
' What is that ? ' " 

She paused for a moment, and Henry, who sate 
with face blanched, staring at his mother, said, 
" Ay, did I — it ran past me suddenly." " Yes, 
but what was it ? " said Father Thomas trpng to 
smile ; "a dog or cat, me thinks." "It was a 
beast," said Henry slowly, in a trembling voice — 
" a beast about the bigness of a goat. I never 
saw the like — yet I did not see it clear ; I but felt 
the air blow, and caught a whiff of it — it was salt 
like the sea, but with a kind of dead smell behind." 
" Was that all you saw ? " said Father Thomas ; 
" belike you were tired and faint, and the air swam 
round 3^ou suddenly — I have known the like myself 
when weary." "Nay, nay," said Henry, " this 
was not like that — it was a beast, sure enough." 
" Ay, and we have seen it since," said Bridget. 
" At least I have not seen it clearly yet, but I have 



i64 OUT OF THE SEA 

smelt its odour, and it turns me sick — but John 
and Henry have seen it often — sometimes it hes 
and seems to sleep, but it watches us ; and again 
it is merry, and will leap in a corner — and John 
saw it skip upon the sands near the wreck — did 
you not, John ? " At these words the two men 
again exchanged a glance, and then old Master 
Grimston, with a dreadful look in his face, in which 
great anger seemed to strive with fear, said, " Nay, 
silly woman, it was not near the wreck, it was 
out to the east." " It matters little," said Father 
Thomas, who saw well enough this was no light 
matter. " I never heard the like of it. I will 
myself come down to your house with a holy book, 
and see if the thing will meet me. I know not 
what this is," he went on, " whether it is a vain 
terror that hath hold of you ; but there be spirits 
of evil in the world, though much fettered by 
Christ and His Saints — we read of such in Holy 
Writ — and the sea, too, doubtless hath its mon- 
sters ; and it may be that one hath wandered out 
of the waves, like a dog that hath strayed from his 
home. I dare not say, till I have met it face to 
face. But God gives no power to such things to 
hurt those who have a fair conscience." — And here 
he made a stop, and looked at the three ; Bridget 
sate regarding him with a hope in her face ; but 
the other two sate peering upon the ground ; and 
the priest divined in some secret way that all was 
not well with them. " But I will come at once," 
he said, rising, " and I will see if I can cast out or 
bind the thing, whatever it be — for I am in this 
place as a soldier of the Lord, to fight with works 



OUT OF THE SEA 165 

of darkness." He took a clasped book from a 
table, and lifted up his hat, saying, " Let us set 
forth." Then he said as they left the room, " Hath 
it appeared to-day ? " " Yes, indeed," said Henry, 
" and it was ill content. It followed us as though 
it were angered." " Come," said Father Thomas, 
turning upon him, " you speak thus of a thing, as 
you might speak of a dog — what is it like ? " 
" Nay," said Henry, " I know not ; I can never 
see it clearly ; it is like a speck in the eye — it is 
never there when you look upon it — it glides away 
very secretly ; it is most like a goat, I think. It 
seems to be horned, and hairy ; but I have seen 
its eyes, and they were yellow, like a flame." 

As he said these words Master Grimston went in 
haste to the door, and pulled it open as though to 
breathe the air. The others followed him and 
went out ; but Master Grimston drew the priest 
aside, and said like a man in a mortal fear, " Look 
you, Father, all this is true — the thing is a devil — 
and why it abides with us I know not ; but I 
cannot live so ; and unless it be cast out it will 
slay me — but if money be of avail, I have it in abun- 
dance." " Nay," said Father Thomas, " let there 
be no talk of money — perchance if I can aid you, 
you may give of your gratitude to God." " Ay, 
ay," said the old man hurriedly, " that was what 
I meant — there is money in abundance for God, 
if He will but set me free." 

So they walked very sadly together through the 
street. There were few folk about ; the men and 
the children were all abroad — a woman or two 
came to the house doors, and wondered a Uttle 



i66 OUT OF THE SEA 

to see them pass so solemnly, as though they 
followed a body to the grave. 

Master Grimston's house was the largest in the 
place. It had a walled garden before it, with a 
strong door set in the wall. The house stood 
back from the road, a dark front of brick with 
gables ; behind it the garden sloped nearly to the 
sands, with wooden barns and warehouses. Master 
Grimston unlocked the door, and then it seemed 
that his terrors came over him, for he would have 
the priest enter first. Father Thomas, with a cer- 
tain apprehension of which he was ashamed, walked 
quickly in, and looked about him. The herbage 
of the garden had mostly died down in the winter, 
and a tangle of sodden stalks lay over the beds. 
A flagged path edged with box led up to the house, 
which seemed to stare at them out of its dark 
windows with a sort of steady gaze. Master Grim- 
ston fastened the door behind them, and they 
went all together, keeping close one to another, up 
to the house, the door of which opened upon a 
big parlour or kitchen, sparely furnished, but very 
clean and comfortable. Some vessels of metal 
glittered on a rack. There v/ere chairs, ranged 
round the open fireplace. There was no sound 
except that the wind buffeted in the chimney. 
It looked a quiet and homely place, and Father 
Thomas grew ashamed of his fears. " Now," said 
he in his firm voice, " though I am your guest here, 
I will appoint what shall be done. We will sit 
here together, and talk as cheerfully as we may, 
till we have dined. Then, if nothing appears to 
us," — and he crossed himself — " I will go round the 



OUT OF THE SEA 167 

house, into every room, and see if we can track 
the thing to its lair : then I will abide with you till 
evensong ; and then I will soon return, and he 
here to-night. Even if the thing be wary, and 
dares not to meet the power of the Church in the 
day-time, perhaps it will venture out at night ; 
and I will even try a fall with it. So come, good 
people, and be comforted." 

So they sate together ; and Father Thomas 
talked of many things, and told some old legends 
of saints ; and they dined, though without much 
cheer ; and still nothing appeared. Then, after 
dinner. Father Thomas would view the house. So 
he took his book up, and they went from room 
to room. On the ground floor there were several 
chambers not used, which they entered in turn, 
but saw nothing ; on the upper floor was a large 
room where Master Grimston and his wife slept ; 
and a further room for Henry, and a guest-chamber 
in which the priest was to sleep if need was ; and a 
room where a servant-maid slept. And now the 
day began to darken and to turn to evening, and 
Father Thomas felt a shadow grow in his mind. 
There came into his head a verse of Scripture 
about a spirit which found a house " empty, swept 
and garnished," and called his fellows to enter in. 

At the end of the passage was a locked door ; 
and Father Thomas said : " This is the last room 
— let us enter." "Nay, there is no need to do that," 
said Master Grimston in a kind of haste ; "it 
leads no whither — it is but a room of stores." "It 
were a pity to leave it un visited," said the Father 
— and as he said the word, there came a kind of 



i68 OUT OF THE SEA 

stirring from within. " A rat, doubtless," said 
the Father, striving with a sudden sense of fear ; 
but the pale faces round him told another tale. 
" Come, Master Grimston, let us be done with 
this," said Father Thomas decisively ; " the hour 
of vespers draws nigh." So Master Grimston 
slowly drew out a key and unlocked the door, and 
Father Thomas marched in. It was a simple 
place enough. There were shelves on which various 
household matters lay, boxes and jars, with twine 
and cordage. On the ground stood chests. There 
were some clothes hanging on pegs, and in a corner 
was a heap of garments, piled up. On one of the 
chests stood a box of rough deal, and from the 
corner of it dripped water, which lay in a little 
pool on the floor. Master Grimston went hurriedly 
to the box and pushed it further to the wall. As 
he did so, a kind of sound came from Henry's hps. 
Father Thomas turned and looked at him ; he 
stood pale and strengthless, his eyes fixed on the 
corner — at the same moment something dark and 
shapeless seemed to slip past the group, and there 
came to the nostrils of Father Thomas a strange 
sharp smell, as of the sea, only that there was a 
taint within it, like the smell of corruption. 

They all turned and looked at Father Thomas 
together, as though seeking a comfort from his 
presence. He, hardly knowing what he did, and 
in the grasp of a terrible fear, fumbled with his 
book ; and opening it, read the first words that 
his eye fell upon, which was the place where the 
Blessed Lord, beset with enemies, said that if He 
did but pray to His Father, He should send Him 



OUT OF THE SEA 169 

forthwith legions of angels to encompass Him. 
And the verse seemed to the priest so like a mes- 
sage sent instantly from heaven that he was not 
a little comforted. 

But the thing, whatever the reason was, ap- 
peared to them no more at that time. Yet the 
thought of it lay very heavy on Father Thomas's 
heart. In truth he had not in the bottom of his 
mind believed that he would see it, but had trusted 
in his honest life and his sacred calling to protect 
him. He could hardly speak for some minutes 
— moreover the horror of the thing was very great 
— and seeing him so grave, their terrors were in- 
creased, though there was a kind of miserable joy 
in their minds that some one, and he a man of 
high repute, should suffer with them. 

Then Father Thomas, after a pause — they were 
now in the parlour — said, speaking very slowly, 
that they were in a sore affliction of Satan, and 
that they must withstand him with a good courage 
— " and look you," he added, turning with a great 
sternness to the three, " if there be any mortal sin 
upon your hearts, see that you confess it and be 
shriven speedily — for while such a thing lies upon 
the heart, so long hath Satan power to hurt — 
otherwise have no fear at all." 

Then Father Thomas slipped out to the garden, 
and hearing the bell pulled for vespers, he went 
to the church, and the three would go with him, 
because they would not be left alone. So they 
went together ; by this time the street was fuller, 
and the servant-maid had told tales, so that there 
was much talk in the place about what was going 



170 OUT OF THE SEA 

forward. None spoke with them as they went, but 
at every corner you might see one check another 
in talk, and a silence fall upon a group, so that they 
knew that their terrors were on every tongue. 
There was but a handful of worshippers in the 
church, v/hich was dark, save for the light on 
Father Thomas' book. He read the holy service 
swiftly and courageously, but his face was very 
pale and grave in the light of the candle. When 
the vespers were over, and he had put off his robe, 
he said that he would go back to his house, and 
gather what he needed for the night, and that 
they should wait for him at the churchyard gate. 
So he strode off to his vicarage. But as he shut 
to the door, he saw a dark figure come running 
up the garden ; he waited with a fear in his mind, 
but in a moment he saw that it was Henry, who 
came up breathless, and said that he must speak 
with the Father alone. Father Thomas knew that 
somewhat dark was to be told him. So he led 
Henry into the parlour and seated himself, and 
said, " Now, my son, speak boldly." So there 
was an instant's silence, and Henry slipped on to 
his knees. 

Then in a moment Henry with a sob began to 
tell his tale. He said that on the day of the wreck 
his father had roused him very early in the dawn, 
and had told him to put on his clothes and come 
silently, for he thought there was a wreck ashore. 
His father carried a spade in his hand, he knew 
not then why. They went down to the tide, which 
was moving out very fast, and left but an inch or 
two of water on the sands. There was but a little 



OUT OF THE SEA 171 

light, but, when they had walked a little, they 
saw the black hull of a ship before them, on the 
edge of the deeper w^ater, the waves driving over 
it ; and then all at once they came upon the body 
of a man lying on his face on the sand. There 
was no sign of life in him, but he clasped a bag in 
his hand that was heavy, and the pocket of his 
coat was full to bulging ; and there lay, moreover, 
some glittering things about him that seemed to 
be coins. They lifted the body up, and his father 
stripped the coat off from the man, and then bade 
Henry dig a hole in the sand, which he presently 
did, though the sand and water oozed fast into 
it. Then his father, who had been stooping down, 
gathering somewhat up from the sand, raised the 
body up, and laid it in the hole, and bade Henry 
cover it with the sand. And so he did till it was 
nearly hidden. Then came a horrible thing ; the 
sand in the hole began to move and stir, and pre- 
sently a hand was put out with clutching fingers ; 
and Henry had dropped the spade, and said, 
*' There is life in him," but his father seized the 
spade, and shovelled the sand into the hole with 
a kind of silent fury, and trampled it over and 
smoothed it down — and then he gathered up the 
coat and the bag, and handed Henry the spade. 
By this time the town was astir, and they saw, 
very faintly, a man run along the shore eastward ; 
so, making a long circuit to the west, they re- 
turned ; his father had put the spade away and 
taken the coat upstairs ; and then he went out 
with Henry, and told all he could find that there 
was a wreck ashore. 



172 OUT OF THE SEA 

The priest heard the story with a fierce shame 
and anger, and turning to Henry he said, " But 
why did you not resist your father, and save the 
poor sailor ? " "I dared not," said Henry shud- 
dering, " though I would have done so if I could ; 
but my father has a power over me, and I am used 
to obey him." Then said the priest, " This is a 
dark matter. But you have told the story bravely, 
and now will I shrive you, my son." So he gave 
him shrift. Then he said to Henry, " And have 
you seen aught that would connect the beast that 
visits you with this thing ? " " Ay, that I have," 
said Henry, "for I watched it with my father skip 
and leap in the water over the place where the 
man lies buried." Then the priest said, " Your 
father must tell me the tale too, and he must make 
submission to the law." " He will not," said 
Henry. " Then will I compel him," said the priest. 
"Not out of my mouth," said Henry, "or he will 
slay me too." And then the priest said that he 
was in a strait place, for he could not use the words 
of confession of one man to convict another of his 
sin. So he gathered his things in haste, and 
walked back to the church ; but Henry went 
another way, saying ^^ I made excuse to come away, 
and said I went elsewhere ; but I fear my father 
much — ^he sees very deep ; and I would not have 
him suspect me of having made confession." 

Then the Father met the other two at the church 
gate ; and they went down to the house in silence, 
the Father pondering heavily ; and at the door 
Henry joined them, and it seemed to the Father 
that old Master Grimston regarded him not. So 



OUT OF THE SEA 173 

they entered the house in silence, and ate in silence, 
listening earnestly for any sound. And the Father 
looked oft on Master Grimston, who ate and drank 
and said nothing, never raising his eyes. But once 
the Father saw him laugh secretly to himself, so 
that the blood came cold in the Father's veins, 
and he could hardly contain himself from accusing 
him. Then the Father had them to prayers, and 
prayed earnestly against the evil, and that they 
should open their hearts to God, if He would show 
them why this misery came upon them. 

Then they went to bed ; and Henry asked that 
he might lie in the priest's room, which he willingly 
granted. And so the house was dark, and they 
made as though they would sleep ; but the Father 
could not sleep, and he heard Henry w^eeping 
silently to himself like a little child. 

But at last the Father slept — how long he knew 
not — and suddenly brake out of his sleep with a 
horror of darkness all about him, and knew that 
there was some evil thing abroad. So he looked 
upon the room. He heard Henry mutter heavily 
in his sleep as though there was a dark terror upon 
him ; and then, in the light of the dying embers, 
the Father saw a thing rise upon the hearth, as 
though it had slept there, and woke to stretch itself. 
And then in the half-light it seemed softly to gambol 
and play ; but whereas when an innocent beast 
does this in the simple joy of its heart, and seems 
a fond and pretty sight, the Father thought he 
had never seen so ugly a sight as the beast gambol- 
ling all by itself, as if it could not contain its own 
dreadful joy ; it looked viler and more wicked 



174 OUT OF THE SEA 

every moment ; then, too, there spread in the 
room the sharp scent of the sea, with the foul 
smell underneath it, that gave the Father a deadly 
sickness ; he tried to pray, but no words would 
come, and he felt indeed that the evil was too 
strong for him. Presently the beast desisted from 
its play, and looking wickedly about it, came near 
to the Father's bed, and seemed to put up its hairy 
forelegs upon it ; he could see its narrow and 
obscene eyes, which burned with a dull yellow 
hght, and were fixed upon him. And now the 
Father thought that his end was near, for he could 
stir neither hand nor foot, and the sweat rained 
down his brow ; but he made a mighty effort, and 
in a voice which shocked himself, so dry and husky 
and \\ithal of so loud and screaming a tone it was, 
he said three holy words. The beast gave a great 
quiver of rage, but it dropped down on the floor, 
and in a moment was gone. They Henry woke, 
and raising himself on his arm, said som.ewhat ; 
but there broke out in the house a great outcry 
and the stamping of feet, which seemed very 
fearful in the silence of the night. The priest leapt 
out of his bed all dizizy, and made a light, and ran 
to the door, and went out, crying whatever words 
came to his head. The door of Master Grimston's 
room was open, and a strange and strangling sound 
came forth ; the Father made his way in, and 
found Master Grimston lying upon the floor, his 
wife bending over him ; he lay still, breathing 
pitifully, and every now and then a shudder ran 
through him. In the room there seemed a strange 
and shadowy tumult going forward ; but the 



OUT OF THE SEA 175 

Father saw that no time could be lost, and kneeling 
down beside Master Grimston, he prayed with all 
his might. 

Presently Master Grimston ceased to struggle 
and lay still, like a man who had come out of a 
sore conflict. Then he opened his eyes, and the 
Father stopped his prayers, and looking very hard 
at him he said, " My son, the time is very short — 
give God the glory." Then Master Grimston, roll- 
ing his haggard eyes upon the group, twice strove 
to speak and could not ; but the third time the 
Father, bending down his head, heard him say in 
a thin voice, that seemed to float from a long way 
off, " I slew him . . . my sin." Then the Father 
swiftly gave him shrift, and as he said the last word, 
Master Grimston's head fell over on the side, and 
the Father said, " He is gone." And Bridget broke 
out into a terrible cry, and fell upon Henry's neck, 
who had entered unseen. 

Then the Father bade him lead her away, and 
put the poor body on the bed ; as he did so he 
noticed that the face of the dead man v/as strangely 
bruised and battered, as though it had been stamped 
upon by the hoofs of some beast. Then Father 
Thomas knelt, and prayed until the light came 
filtering in through the shutters ; and the cocks 
crowed in the village, and presently it was day. 
But that night the Father learnt strange secrets, 
and something of the dark purposes of God was 
revealed to him.. 

In the morning there came one to find the priest, 
and told him that another body had been thrown 
up on the shore, which was strangely smeared with 



176 OUT OF THE SEA 

sand, as though it had been rolled over and over 
in it ; and the Father took order for its burial. 

Then the priest had long talk \nth Bridget and 
Henry. He found them sitting together, and she 
held her son's hand and smoothed his hair, as 
though he had been a little child ; and Henry 
sobbed and wept, but Bridget was very calm. 
" He hath told me all," she said, " and we have 
decided that he shall do whatever you bid him ; 
must he be given to justice ? " and she looked at 
the priest very pitifully. " Nay, nay," said the 
priest. " I hold not Henry to account for the 
death of the man ; it was his father's sin, who 
hath made heavy atonement — the secret shall be 
buried in our hearts." 

Then Bridget told him how she had waked sud- 
denly out of her sleep, and heard her husband cry 
out ; and that then followed a dreadful kind of 
strugghng, ^^dth the scent of the sea over all ; and 
then he had all at once fallen to the ground and 
she had gone to him — and that then the priest 
had come. 

Then Father Thomas said with tears that God 
had shown them deep things and visited them very 
strangely ; and they would henceforth Hve humbly 
in His sight, sho\ring mercy. 

Then lastly he went with Henry to the store- 
room ; and there, in the box that had dripped 
with water, lay the coat of the dead man, full of 
money, and the bag of money too ; and Henry 
would have cast it back into the sea, but the priest 
said that this might not be, but that it should be 
bestowed plentifully upon shipwTecked mariners 



OUT OF THE SEA 177 

unless the heirs should be found. But the ship 
appeared to be a foreign ship, and no search ever 
revealed whence the money had come, save that 
it seemed to have been violently come by. 

Master Grimston was found to have left much 
wealth. But Bridget would sell the house and the 
land, and it mostly went to rebuild the church to 
God's glory. Then Bridget and Henry removed to 
the vicarage and served Father Thomas faithfully, 
and they guarded their secret. And beside the 
nave is a little high turret built, where burns a 
lamp in a lantern at the top, to give light to those 
at sea. 

Now the beast troubled those of whom I write 
no more ; but it is easier to raise up evil than to 
lay it ; and there are those that say that to this 
day a man or a woman with an evil thought in 
their hearts may see on a certain evening in 
November, at the ebb of the tide, a goatlike thing 
wade in the water, snufhng at the sand, as though 
it sought but found not. But of this I know 
nothing. 



M 



THE TROTH OF THE SWORD 

Sir Hugh was weary, for he had ridden far and fast 
that day, and ridden warily too, by bypaths and 
green forest roads, for the country was much har- 
ried by robbers at that time, under the grim chief 
that went by the name of the Red Hound : he 
was an outlaw that had been a knight ; but for his 
cruelty and his blackness of heart and his pitiless 
wickedness he had been driven from his stronghold 
into the forest, where he lived a hunted life, rending 
hitherto all that were sent against him, a terror in 
the land ; writing his anger upon broken churches 
and charred farmsteads. Sparing none but the 
children whom he took to serve him, and maidens 
to please himself and his men. 

But Sir Hugh had been safe enough ; for the 
Red Hound was out northwards ; and Sir Hugh 
was gallantly attended by a troop of jingling horse, 
that went swiftly before and behind him, while he 
rode in the midst, silent as was his wont, his eyes 
dwelling wistfully upon the green and lonely places 
of the forest, the bright faces of the flowers, and 
the woodland things that slipped away into the 
brake. For all his deeds of might — and Hugh 
though young in years was old in valour — he had a 
deep desire for peace and the fair and beautiful 

arts of life. He could sing tuneably to the lute ; 

178 



THE TROTH OF THE SWORD 179 

and he loved the dehcate things of earth with a 
love of which he spoke to none. 

At last they struck out of the forest into a firmer 
road ; and here was a wall by the wayside and 
a towered gate ; but the wood climbed steeply 
within. At the gate they halted, and presently 
Sir Hugh was admitted. The road within was 
paved with stone, and led to the left ; and here Sir 
Hugh dismounted, and saying that he would stretch 
his limbs, left his horse to be led by the page that 
rode beside him, giving him a smiling glance, 
which had made the boy a willing and loving ser- 
vant. The troop rode off among the copses ; and 
Sir Hugh, taught by the porter, took a grassy 
path that led steeply through the wood to the right, 
the porter teUing him that he would be the first 
at the castle gate ; for the path was steep and 
direct, while the road wound at an easier slope, 
to the top of the hill where the Castle stood. 

Sir Hugh unlaced his helmet, for the day had 
been still and hot. He was a very gracious youth 
to behold. His face was beardless and clean-cut. 
His skin was as the skin of a child, for he had lived 
a pure life, eating and drinking sparingly. An- 
other might have been mocked for this ; but Sir 
Hugh was so gallant a fighter, so courteous, so 
loving, that he was let to please himself. His eyes 
were large and quiet ; his hair rippled into short 
brown curls. He had no signs of travel, save a 
little dust upon his brow ; and this he washed off 
at a rill that fell clear through the wood, dripping 
from the rocks. And so he went up easily, and 
glancing about him. The oak-copse interlaced its 



i8o THE TROTH OF THE SWORD 

boughs above his head ; the sun had lately set, 
and there was a soft twilight in the forest. In the 
pale sky floated a few dark clouds, with rims of 
fire caught from the sinking sun ; sometimes the 
wood was all about him, with close undergrowth 
and grassy paths. Sometimes he saw a pile of 
rocks, all overgrown with moss, indistinct in the 
gloom. Sometimes he saw a dell where a stream 
went murmuring down, hidden in climbing plants ; 
sometimes a little lawn would open in the heart of 
the chase, where a deer stood to graze, leaping 
lightly into the brake at the sight of him. 

He came very suddenly to the end of the path. 
Through the interlaced leaves of the copse a great 
bulk loomed up, that seemed strangely high and 
dark ; the wood ended, and he saw the Castle 
before him, with its turrets and battlements show- 
ing black against the green sky ; a light or two 
burnt with a fiery redness in some of the high 
windows. 

He stepped out on to the wide platform of the 
Castle, and saw before him the wooded ridges of 
the lower hills, with light veils of mist lying among 
them, that had a golden hue from the setting sun ; 
beyond, rose the shadowy shapes of mountains, 
that seemed to guard a sweet and solemn secret of 
peace in their midst. As he looked round, his 
troop rode briskly out of the wood, with a sudden 
clatter, and a sharp ringing of weapons, as they 
came out upon the paved space ; and presently a 
warder looked out, and the great doors of the 
Castle were opened to them. 

Sir Hugh bore with him a letter of great import. 



THE TROTH OF THE SWORD i8i 

The Lord whom he served, the Earl Fitzi-Simon, 
was a man of haughty strength and great pride. 
His Countess was lately dead, and he had no son 
to bear his name. He was old and grizlzled and 
brought a terror about with him. He was as 
powerful indeed as the King himself, of whom the 
Earl spoke scornfully, without concealment, doing 
him a scanty homage when they met. Sir Hugh 
was of distant kin to him, and had been brought 
up in his Castle ; and the Earl went as near loving 
him as he had ever gone, wishing that he had him 
as his son, and indeed desiring that he should have 
the Earldom after him if he had no heir of his own, 
and marry his only daughter, a grim maiden. 
And Hugh loved the Earl very faithfully, giving 
him the worship of a son. 

On the day before the Earl had sent for him ; 
and Hugh had stood beside him as he sate and 
wrote in silence, watching his great bony hand 
and his knotted brov/, bristled with stiff hair. Pre- 
sently the Earl had thrown down his pen, and ex- 
claiming that he was but an ill clerk, had smiled 
pleasantly upon Hugh, telling him in a few sour 
words that he meant to take another wife, and that 
his choice had fallen upon the Lady Mary, the 
daughter of the Lord Bigod (whose Castle it was 
that Sir Hugh now approached). " A goodly 
maiden, apt to bear strong children to my body." 
And as he said this he made a pause, and watched 
Hugh narrowly to see how he took the news, and 
whether he had hoped for the Earldom after him. 
But Hugh had given him an open smile in return, 
and said that he wished him much happiness, and 



i82 THE TROTH OF THE SWORD 

heirs to rule after him. And the Earl had nodded 
well-pleased, knowing that Hugh had spoken what 
was in his heart, and that no other man that he 
knew would have so wished in Hugh's place ; and 
then the Earl had sworn a coarse oath or two, 
saying that he was old and spent, and if he did 
not beget an heir, Hugh should come after him ; 
but that if he did beget a man-child, then that 
Hugh should have the guarding of him after he 
himself was gone. And then he did up his letter 
roughly, splashed wax upon it, and pricked it with 
a signet ; and bade Hugh ride in haste with a score 
of troopers, saying, " And I trust you with this 
because you do not turn your eyes aside to vanity, 
as the priests say, and care nothing for the looks 
of maidens ; therefore you will be a safe mes- 
senger ; and you will put my ring (he gave it him) 
upon the Lady Mary's finger before the priest, and 
kiss her on the lips if you have a mind ; and bid 
her ride within the week to the wedding ; and 
stay not for the Lord Bigod, for he is more maid 
than man, and will not willingly let his daughter 
go ; but will fear to keep her from my behest." 

And then he beat his hand on Hugh's shoulder, 
as his manner was when he was pleased ; and 
then to Hugh's surprise bent and kissed his cheek, 
as a man might kiss his son, and then, as if ashamed, 
frowned upon him, and said " with haste ! " — and 
in an hour Hugh was gone. 

Now when they entered the Castle, which had a 
great court within, full of galleries, there was a 
great stir of people to see them ; the horses were 
led away to the stables ; the troopers passed into 



THE TROTH OF THE SWORD 183 

the guard room ; and an old seneschal with a 
white staff asked Hugh courteously of his business, 
and then led him up a flight of steps, and into a 
long dark room, hung with a faded green arras. 

Here sate a pale thin man at a table, looking 
upon a book, in a velvet gown ; the seneschal 
cried out Hugh's name, who made an obeisance, 
and then advancing, put the letter in the hands 
of the Lord Bigod, saying, " From the Earl Fitz- 
Simon ; these." Then the Lord Bigod rent the 
paper, looking curiously upon it ; and read therein. 
Hugh observed him closely ; he looked more like 
a priest than a knight, but there was something 
very sweet and noble about his air, and he looked 
as a man might look who had known both sorrow 
and thought, and wished well to all the world. 
The Lord Bigod read the letter, and then grew 
somewhat pale ; then he read it again, and walked 
to the window, turning it in his hands. He stood 
so long, holding the letter behind him, and look- 
ing out, that Hugh saw that he was wrestling in 
mind and ill-at-ease. Then he turned, and said 
very courteously to Hugh, though his voice trembled 
somewhat, " Know you what is within this letter ? " 
And Hugh said, "Yea, sir." And the Lord Bigod 
said, " It is a great matter." And then, after 
another long silence, the Lord Bigod turned to 
the seneschal who waited at the door, and said, 
" See that Sir Hugh be well bestowed : " and then 
with an inclination of the head to Sir Hugh he 
added, " I will think hereon, and you shall hear 
my words to-morrow." Hugh turned and followed 
the seneschal out ; and he felt a great pity for the 



i84 THE TROTH OF THE SWORD 

kind Lord whom he had left, for he saw that he 
was in great sadness of mind and perplexity. The 
seneschal asked Hugh if he would join the knights, 
but Hugh said he was weary and would rest. So 
the seneschal led him to a spacious chamber, from 
which Hugh could see the tree-tops of the forest, 
and the mountains very black, with a great orange 
glow of sunset behind ; food was served him, and 
his page came to him, to do off his armour. And 
presently, seeing that the page was very weary, 
he bade him lie down to sleep ; so the page lay 
down upon a little bed that was in a turret opening 
on the room ; and soon after Sir Hugh himself 
lay down upon a great pillared bed, made of oak, 
and hung with tapestries. But he could not sleep, 
but lay wearily gazing at the glimmering window 
and hearing the breathing of the boy in the turret 
hard by, till at last he too fell asleep. 

The morning came with a great brightness and 
freshness, with the hoarse cries of the jackdaws 
that hved in the ledges of the tower ; Sir Hugh 
dressed himself carefully and noiselessly, not to 
wake the page, who still slept deeply ; then he 
stood beside the boy's bed ; the boy stretched out 
his arms in slumber and then awoke, ashamed 
to be later than his master, and to find him 
apparelled. 

Presently the seneschal came, and led Hugh to 
the Hall, where were the two sons of the Lord 
Bigod, with a large company of knights, that stood 
up at his appearing, and did him great honour ; 
and then came a message for him to go to the 
Lord Bigod. Hugh saw at once that he was very 



THE TROTH OF THE SWORD 185 

weary and had not slept ; the letter lay on the 
table beside him ; and he said to Hugh that he 
had given the letter great thought, and that it 
was a very honourable behest : " And herewith I 
accept it for the Lady Mary," he said stammer- 
ingly, " who will do as my daughter and as the 
chosen of the honourable Earl should do." Then 
he was silent for a space, presently adding, " I 
have not told my daughter the tidings yet ; I will 
tell her ; and then you shall have speech with 
her ; but I would," he added, " that there was not 
such haste in the matter ; for a maiden is a tender 
thing and merits tender usage ; do you think, 
sir " — and here he looked anxiously upon Hugh — 
" do you think that the Earl will consent to a 
longer delay, that the maiden may grow accus- 
tomed to the thought ? She has as yet spoken 
to no man but myself and her brothers, and though 
she is fearless and of a high spirit " — he broke off 
suddenly, and then with a wistful glance at Sir 
Hugh, added, " Will the Earl delay awhile ? " 
Sir Hugh felt a great pity for the man who stood 
so anxiously before him, but he hardened his 
heart and said, " I think that the Earl will not 
delay his purpose : he is swift to do his will." A 
great cloud of sadness came down on the Lord 
Bigod's face, and he said very low, " That is a 
good way, the way of a great warrior — so be it 
then, sir," and he softly withdrew, asking Hugh 
to wait for him. 

Then fell a long silence ; and Hugh, looking 
upon the folded letter on the table, felt it to be 
a cruel thing ; but he never wavered in loyalty 



i86 THE TROTH OF THE SWORD 

to the Earl, and thought to himself that the longer 
the maiden waited the more would she perchance 
be terrified ; that great men must wed as they 
would — and other things with which he sought 
to excuse what seemed a harsh deed. 

Suddenly he heard a footstep ; a door opened ; 
and the Lord Bigod appeared, leading a maiden 
into the room, who encircled his arm with her 
hands. She was tall and slender, apparelled all 
in white, with a girdle of gold. She was very 
pale, but bore herself with a gentle and simple 
grace ; and there fell upon Hugh a thought that 
he cast from him as it were with both his hands. 
He had never known love, and his heart was as 
pure as snow ; the m_aidens that he had seen had 
appeared to him but as distant visions of tender- 
ness and grace, stirring in his heart nothing but 
a sort of brotherly compassion for things so deli- 
cate and frail, and unfit for the hard world in which 
men must live. But at the sight of the Lady Mary, 
her great eyes, in which there seemed a trace of 
swimming tears, he felt suddenly a deep passionate 
hunger of the heart, as though a svv^eet and deep 
mystery, lying far-off, had been brought suddenly 
near to him. Was this love, that great power 
of which the poets sung ; the power which had 
lost kingdoms and wrought the destruction of 
men ? He feared it was so indeed. He felt as a 
poor man might, who had lived in pinching want, 
and had suddenly found a great treasure of gold, 
at the stroke of a mattock in his field. One glance 
passed between them ; and it seemed as though 
some other thing had passed ; as though their 



THE TROTH OF THE SWORD 187 

sonls had leapt together. Then he dropped his 
eyes and stood waiting, while a faint fragrance 
seemed to pass upon the air. Then the Lord 
Bigod said very gravely, " Sir Hugh, I have told 
the Lady Mary of your errand ; and she will do 
the bidding of the Earl in every point. To-day 
we will make preparation ; to-morrow shall the 
betrothal be ; and on the third day the Lady Mary 
shall ride with you ; and now I will leave you 
together for awhile ; for the Lady Mary would 
ask you many things, and you will be courteous 
and tell her all." Then he kissed his daughter, 
and led her to a chair before the table, and motioned 
to Sir Hugh to be seated at the table-side ; and 
then he went out of the room in haste. 

Then the Lady Mary began to speak in a low 
clear voice that had no trembling in it ; but her 
hands that were clasped together on the table 
trembled ; and Hugh took courage, and told her 
of the greatness of the Earl and his high courage, 
praising him generously and nobly ; he spoke of 
the Earl's daughter, and of the kinsfolk that abode 
there ; and of the priest of the Castle, and of the 
knights ; and of the Castle itself, and its great 
woodland chase ; and the Lady Mary heard him 
attentively, her eyes fixed upon his face, and her 
lips parted. And then she asked him one or two 
questions, but broke off, and said, " Sir Hugh, 
you will know that all this is very new and strange 
to me ; but it is not the newness and strangeness 
that is most in my heart ; but it is the thought 
of what I leave behind, this house and my kin ; 
and my father who is above all things dear to me — 



i88 THE TROTH OF THE SWORD 

for I know no other place but this, and no other 
faces have I seen." Then Sir Hugh felt his whole 
heart melted within him at the sight both of her 
grief and of her high courage. And the thought 
that she should thus pass in all her stainless grace 
to the harsh embrace of the old and grim Earl, 
came like a horror into his heart ; but he only 
said, " Lady, I have dwelt all my life with the 
Earl and he has ever used me gently and graciously, 
and he is as a father to me ; I know that men fear 
him ; yet I can but say that he has a true heart 
full of msdom and might." And the Lady Mary 
smiled faintly, and said, " I will be sure it is so 
indeed." And so she rose, and presently with- 
drew. 

The day passed like a swift dream for Sir Hugh. 
He could think of nothing but the Lady Mary, 
with a strange leaping of the heart ; that she was 
in the Castle above him, hidden somewhere like a 
flower in the dark walls ; that he would stand 
before her to plight his Lord's troth ; that he 
would ride with her through the forest ; and that 
he would have her near him through the months, 
when she was wedded to the Earl — all this was a 
secret and urgent joy to him ; not that he thought 
ever to win her love — such a traitorous imagining 
never even crossed his mind — but he thought that 
she would be as a sweet sister to him, whom he 
would guard as he could from every shadow of 
care ; the thought of her sadness, and of her fear 
of the Earl worked strongly in his heart ; but he 
saw no way out of that ; and indeed believed, or 
tried to believe in his heart, that she would love 



THE TROTH OF THE SWORD 189 

the Earl for his might, and that he would love 
her for her grace, and that so all would be well. 

The next day he rose very early, and was soon 
summoned to the chapel. There were few present ; 
there seemed indeed, from soft movements and 
whisperings, to be ladies in a gallery beside the 
altar, but they were hidden in a lattice. The sons 
of the Lord Bigod were there, looking full of joyful 
excitement ; other lords and knights sate within 
the chapel, and an old priest, in stiff vestments, 
with a worn and patient face, knelt by the altar, 
his hps moving as in prayer. Presently the Lord 
Bigod came in, as pale as death and sore troubled, 
and with him v>^alked the Lady Mary, who seemed 
to bring the very peace of God with her. She was 
pale, but clear of complexion, and with a great 
brightness in her eyes, as of one whose will was 
strong. Then Hugh drew near to the altar, and 
plighted the Earl's troth to her, putting the great 
ring, with its ruby as red as blood, upon her finger. 
He noticed, as he waited to put the ring upon her 
hand, that a ray of light from the window darted 
through the signet, and cast a light, like a drop 
of blood, upon the maiden's white palm ; and 
then the voice of the priest, raised softly in blessing, 
fell upon his ear with a tender hope ; and at the 
end he knelt down very gently, and kissed the Lady 
Mary's hand in token of fealty ; and the thought 
of the Earl's jest about bidding him to kiss her on 
the lips came like a shameful thought into his mind. 

Then the day passed slowly and sadly ; but he 
saw not the Lady Mary save once, when, as he 
walked in the wood, trying to cool his hot brain 



190 THE TROTH OF THE SWORD 

with the quiet, he saw her stand on a balcony 
looking out over the forest with an infinite and 
patient sadness of air, as of one that bade farewell. 

And again the sun went down, and the night 
passed ; and at daybreak he heard the clatter of 
horsehoofs in the court, the jingling of the stirrups, 
and the voices of his troop, who made merry adieux 
to their new comrades. 

Then he came down himself ; and saw beside 
his horse a smaller horse richly caparisoned ; then 
in a moment, very swiftly, came the Lady Mary 
down the stairs, with the Lord Bigod and her 
brothers ; she kissed her brothers, who looked 
smilingly at her ; and then her father, hanging for 
a moment on his neck, and whispering a word into 
his ear ; and Hugh could see the Lord Bigod's face 
working, as he restrained his tears, in anguish of 
heart. Then she smiled palely upon Hugh ; her 
father hfted her to her horse ; and they rode out 
with a great waving of handkerchiefs and crying 
of farewells, the bell of the Castle ringing as sweet 
as honey in the tower 

They rode all day in the green forest, with a 
troop in front and a troop behind. The air was 
cool and fresh, and the sun lay sweetly upon the 
glades and woodpaths. All things seemed to re- 
joice together ; the birds sang out of their simple 
joy, and the doves cooed, hidden in the heart of 
great green trees ; and the joy of being with the 
maiden outweighed all other thoughts in the mind 
of Sir Hugh. Sometimes they were silent, and 
sometimes they talked softly together like brother 
and sister. What pleased him best was that she 



THE TROTH OF THE SWORD 191 

seemed to have put all care and anxiety away from 
her mind ; once or twice, after a silence, he saw a 
tear ghsten on her cheek ; but she spoke, with no 
show of courage, but as though she had formed a 
purpose, and would take whatever befel her with 
a gentle tranquillity. The little services that he 
was enabled to do her seemed to him like a treasure 
that he laid up for the days to come ; and the 
love which he felt in his heart had no shadow in 
it ; it was simply as the worship of a pure spirit 
for the most delicate and beautiful thing that the 
world could hold. 

At last the sun set when they were yet some 
miles from the Earl's Castle ; and while Hugh was 
still counting up the minutes that remained to 
him, he saw the troop in front come to a halt ; and 
presently one of them rode back, and told him 
with an uneasy air that there was a great smoke 
in the wood to the left ; and that they thought 
they were not far from the haunts of the Red 
Hound. But Hugh said lightly, not to terrify the 
maiden, that the Red Hound was far to the north ; 
to which the trooper replied with a downcast look, 
" It was so said, sir." " Ride on then warily ! " 
said Hugh — and he bade the troop behind come up 
nearer. The Lady Mary presently asked him what 
the matter was ; and though by this time a dreadful 
anxiety had sprung into Hugh's mind, he told her 
who the Red Hound was, and she replied that 
she had heard of him ; but seeing that he was 
somewhat troubled she forbore to speak more of 
that, but pointed out to him a little tuft of red 
flowers that grew daintily in the crevice of a rock 



192 THE TROTH OF THE SWORD 

beside the path. He turned to look at it ; and 
suddenly became aware that something, he could 
not clearly say what, had slipped away at that 
moment from the bushes beside the road ; the 
thought came into his mind that this was a spy 
set to watch them ; and so he bade the men draw 
their swords, and close about them in a ring. 

They were now in the thickest of the wood. 
The green road in which they were riding dipped 
down to a low marshy place, where a stream soaked 
through the path. The rock, which seemed like a 
little pinnacle, rose sharply on their left clear of 
the bushes : all else was forest, except that a little 
path or clearing led up to the left, among the trees. 
There was an utter stillness in the air, which was 
all full of a golden light. The swords came merrily 
out of the scabbards with a sudden clang. The 
troopers closed in about them ; but then, with a 
sudden dark rush out of the wood, there swept 
down the clearing a number of horsemen, roughly 
clad with leather cuirasses and gaiters, all armed 
with long pointed spears. It seemed as though 
they must have been ambushed there against them, 
they came on with such suddenness. 

In a moment there was a scene of fierce con- 
fusion ; swords flashed high ; there were groans 
and shouts ; a trooper, pierced by a lance, fell 
writhing at their feet ; one of the enemy, cut 
down by a sword blow, fell to the earth and crouched 
there, blood dripping from his head and shoulder ; 
but the armoured troopers, well drilled and trained, 
would have prevailed, had not a flight of arrows 
sung with a sharp rattle out of the thicket, and 



THE TROTH OF THE SWORD 193 

four of the men behind him fell, two of them in- 
stantly slain, and two grievously wounded. The 
riderless horses, wounded too, rushed snorting 
down the road, and another troop of men on foot 
poured out of the forest behind them. 

In the middle of the enemies' lancers rode a tall 
man, red-haired and scowling, with yet something 
of a knightly air. Hugh recognised him at once 
as none other than the Red Hound himself, whom 
he had seen long ago before the days of his out- 
lawry. He did not join in the fight, but sate on 
his horse a little apart, shouting a command from 
moment to moment. 

Hugh cast a swift glance round ; the men on 
foot were yet some little way off, running down 
the road ; the troopers in front had pushed the 
lancemen a little way up the clearing ; and Hugh 
determined to attempt a desperate rush with the 
Lady Mary up the road : desperate indeed it was, 
but he saw that if he could but get clear of the 
fight, there were none that could follow, except 
perhaps the chief himself ; Hugh leant across his 
horse's neck ; the Lady Mary sate still and silent, 
like the daughter of a line of knights, looking at 
the combat with a steady and unblenching look. 
He laid his hand on her bridle rein, and she turned 
and looked in his eyes ; and he saw that therein 
which made him glad in the midst of the dangers 
— though he was too much accustomed to battle 
to have fear for himself — it was as a man, that 
had been long voyaging, might see, in a clear 
dawn, the cliffs of his home across the leaping 
seas. 

N 



194 THE TROTH OF THE SWORD 

He pointed, and said a word in her ear ; she 
glanced at him, nodded, and drew up her rein ; 
but at that moment his horse gave a short upward 
jerk, and then fell grovelling on his knees, an arrow 
sticking in his side, close to Sir Hugh's knee. He 
flung his foot clear, and leapt to the Lady's side ; 
and then in a moment he saw that the battle was 
gone against him past mending. Another flight of 
arrows sang from the thicket, and four of the 
troopers in the glade fell from their horses, and 
the lancers, who were drawing back, pressed down 
upon them. Then Sir Hugh signed swiftly to the 
Lady that she should ride clear ; but in that 
moment the Lady's horse fell too. Sir Hugh caught 
her in his arms, and dragged her free of the horse, 
tearing her gown by the knee, for the arrow that 
had slain the horse had pierced through the Lady's 
garment, though without wounding her. Then he 
saw that they were very hard beset, and that there 
Vv^as no v/ay out ; so he hastened to the rock, laid 
his hands upon a little ledge about as high as his 
head ; leapt up, set his sword beside him, and 
then, stooping down, drew the Lady up beside 
him. Then he shouted to his men to come 
back to the rock ; there were but a handful 
left ; but they drew back slowly, and made 
a little ring about the base of the rock, while 
the others drew slowly in around them, but 
halted at a little distance, fearing the flashing 
swords. 

The Red Hound himself stood near at hand ; 
Hugh heard him shout his commands aloud, and 
heard him say that they should save the girl alive, 



THE TROTH OF THE SWORD 195 

and take the Knight captive if they could — and 
the Lady Mary heard it too, for she turned to Sir 
Hugh, and with a sudden look of entreaty, said, 
" Hugh, I must not fall into his hands." He 
looked at her smiling, and said, " Nay, dear, you 
shall not." 

And then Hugh saw that it was indeed the end, 
and that his death was at hand ; he had seen men 
in abundance die, and had often wondered how 
it was that death should come to him at the last. 
But now, instead of fear, there came to him a sort 
of fierce joy that he should die with her whom he 
was now not ashamed to love ; and in the midst 
of the shouting and the tumult, he had a sudden 
vision of himself and her wandering away, two 
happy spirits, hand in hand, from the place of 
their passion. 

And nov/ the last of his troopers had fallen. 
Then the Lady Mary drew close to him, and said, 
"Is it time ? " And he said, " Yes, dear, it is 
the time ; fear nought — you will feel nothing — 
and you will wait for me, for I shall follow you 
close. And now, dear one, turn your face from 
me lest it unman me — there is nought to fear.'' 
So she smiled again, and he kissed her on the lips, 
and she turned from him ; and he struck one 
stroke with his sword ; she quivered once, and sink- 
ing down moved no more. 

Then Sir Hugh prayed a prayer ; and looking 
upon his sword, off which the blood now dripped, 
he poised it in his hand like a lance. The spear- 
men had closed in to the rock. But Hugh hurled 
his sword point foremost at the Red Hound, and 



196 THE TROTH OF THE SWORD 

saw it sink through his skull, till the hilt clattered 
on his brow ; and then he cast one look upon the 
Lady ; and, as a man might enter the gates of his 
home, he leapt very joyfully down among the 
spears. 



THE HILL OF TROUBLE 

There was once a great scholar, Gilbert by name, 
who lived at Cambridge, and was Fellow of St. 
Peter's College there. He was still young, and yet 
he had made himself a name for learning, and still 
more for wisdom, which is a different thing, though 
the two are often confused. Gilbert was a slender, 
spare man, but well-knit and well-proportioned. 
He loved to wear old scholarly garments, but he 
had that sort of grace in v/earing them that made 
him appear better apparelled than most men in 
new clothes. His hair was thick and curling, and 
he had small features clearly cut. His lips were 
somewhat thin, as though from determined thought. 
He carried his eyes a little wrinkled up, as though 
to spare them from the light ; but he had a gracious 
look which he turned on those with whom he spoke ; 
and when he opened his eyes upon you, they were 
large and clear, as though charged with dreams ; 
and he had a very sweet smile, trustful and gentle, 
that seemed to take any that spoke with him 
straight to his heart, and made him many friends. 
He had the look rather of a courtier than of a 
priest, and he was merry and cheerful in discourse, 
so that you might be long with him and not know 

him to be learned. It may be said that he had no 

197 



1 98 THE HILL OF TROUBLE 

enemies, though he did not conceal his behefs and 
thoughts, but stated them so courteously and with 
such deference to opposite views, that he drew men 
insensibly to his side. It was thought by many 
that he ought to go into the world and make a great 
name for himself. But he loved the quiet College 
life, the familiar talk with those he knew. He 
loved the great plenty of books and the discourse 
of simple and wise men. He loved the fresh bright 
hours of solitary work, the shady College garden, 
with its butts and meadows, bordered by ancient 
walls. He loved to sit at meat in the cool and 
spacious hall ; and he loved too the dark high- 
roofed College Church, and his own canopied stall 
with the service-books in due order, the low music 
of the organ, and the sweet singing of the choir. 
He was not rich, but his Fellowship gave him all 
that he desired, together with a certain seemly 
dignity of life that he truly valued ; so that his 
heart was very full of a simple happiness from 
day to day, and he thought that he would be more 
than content to live out his life in the peaceful 
College that he loved so v^ell. 

But he was ambitious too ; he was writing a 
great book full of holy learning ; and he had of 
late somewhat withdrawn himself from the life of 
the College ; he sate longer at his studies and he 
was seen less often in other Colleges. Ten years 
he gave himself to finish his task, and he thought 
that it would bring him renown ; but that was 
only a far-off dream, gilding his studies with a 
kind of peaceful glory ; and indeed he loved the 



THE HILL OF TROUBLE 199 

doing of his work better than any reward he might 
get for it. 

One summer he felt he wanted some change of 
hfe ; the sultry Cambridge air, so dry and low, 
seemed to him to be heavy and lifeless. He began 
to dream of fresh mountain breezes, and the sound 
of leaping streams ; so at last he packed his books 
into a box, and set off a long journey into the hills 
of the West, to a village where an old friend of his 
was the priest, who he knew would welcome him. 

On the sixth day he arrived at the place ; he 
had enjoyed the journey ; much of the time he 
had ridden, but he often walked, for he was very 
strong and active of body ; he had delighted in 
seeing the places he had passed through, the 
churches and the towns and the castles that lay 
beside the way ; he had been pleased with the 
simple friendly inns, and as his custom was had 
talked with all travellers that he met. And most 
of all he had loved, as he drew nearer the West, 
to see the great green slopes of hills, the black 
heads of mountains, the steep wooded valleys, 
where the road lay along streams, that dashed 
among mossy boulders into still pools. 

At last he came to the village which he sought, 
which lay with its grey church and low stone 
houses by a bridge, in a deep valley. The vicarage 
lay a little apart in a pleasant garden ; and his 
friend the Vicar had made him greatly welcome. 
The Vicar was an old man and som.ewhat infirm, 
but he loved the quiet life of the country, and 
knew all the joys and sorrows of his simple flock. 



200 THE HILL OF TROUBLE 

A large chamber was set apart for Gilbert, who 
ranged his books on a great table, and prepared 
for much quiet work. The window of the chamber 
looked down the valley, which was very still. There 
was no pattering of feet in the road, as there was 
at Cambridge ; the only sounds were the crying 
of cocks or the bleating of sheep from the hill- 
pastures, the sound of the wind in the woods, and 
the falling of water from the hills. So Gilbert was 
well content. 

For the first few days he was somewhat restless ; 
he explored the valley in all directions. The Vicar 
could not walk much, and only crept to and fro 
in the town, or to church ; and though he some- 
times rode to the hills, to see sick folk on upland 
farms, yet he told Gilbert that he must go his 
walks alone ; and Gilbert was not loth ; for as 
he thus went by himself in the fresh air, a stream 
of pleasant fancies and gentle thoughts passed 
lightly through his head, and his work shaped itself in 
his brain, like a valley seen from a height, where the 
fields and farms lie out, as if on a map, with the road 
winding among them that ties them with the world. 

One day Gilbert walked alone to a very solitary 
place among the hills, a valley where the woods 
grew thickly ; the valley was an estuary, where 
the sea came up blue and fresh twice in the day, 
covering the wide sandbanks with still water that 
reflected the face of the sky ; in the midst of the 
valley, joined with the hillside by a chain of low 
mounds, there rose a large round hill, covered with 
bushes which grew thickly over the slopes, and 



THE HILL OF TROUBLE 201 

among little crags, haunted by hawks and crows. 
It looked a very solitary, peaceful hill, and he 
stopped at a farm beside the road to inquire of the 
way thither, because he was afraid of finding him- 
self unable to cross the streams. 

At his knock there came out an ancient man, 
with whom Gilbert entered into simple travellers' 
talk of the weather and the road ; Gilbert asked 
him the name of the place, and the man told him 
that it was called the Gate of the Old Hollow. Then 
Gilbert pointing to the hill that lay in the midst, 
asked him what that was. The old man looked at 
him for a moment without answering, and then 
said in a low voice, " That, sir, is the Hill of 
Trouble." " That is a strange name ! " said Gil- 
bert. " Yes," said the old man, " and it is a 
strange place, where no one ever sets foot — there 
is a cruel tale about it ; there is something that is 
not well about the place." 

Gilbert was surprised to hear the other speak so 
gravely ; but the old man, who was pleased with 
his company, asked him if he would not rest awhile 
and eat ; and Gilbert said that he would do so 
gladly, and the more gladly if the other would 
tell him the story of the place. The old man 
led him within into a large room, with plain oak 
furniture, and brought him bread and honey 
and milk ; and Gilbert ate, while the old man 
told him the legend of the Hill. 

He said that long years ago it was a place of 
heathen worship, and that there stood a circle of 
stones upon it, where sacrifice was done ; and that 



203 THE HILL OF TROUBLE 

men, it was said, were slain there with savage 
rites ; and that when the Christian teachers came, 
and the valley became obedient to the faith, it 
was forbidden the villagers to go there, and for 
long years it was desolate ; but there had dwelt 
in the manor-house hard by a knight, fearless and 
rough, who regarded neither God nor man, who 
had lately wedded a wife whom he loved beyond 
anything in the world. And one day there was 
with the knight a friend who was a soldier, and 
after dinner, in foolish talk, the knight said that 
he would go to the Hill, and he made a wager on 
it. The knight's lady besought him not to go, but 
he girded on his sword and went laughing. Now 
at the time, the old man said, there was much 
fighting in the valley, for the people were not yet 
subject to the English king, but paid tribute to 
their own Lords ; and the knight had been one 
that fought the best. What the knight saw on 
the hill no one ever knew, but he came back at 
sundown, pale, and like a man that has been 
strangely scared, looking behind him as though he 
expected to be followed by something ; and from 
that day he kept his chamber, and would not go 
abroad, or if he went out, he went fearfully, look- 
ing about him ; and the English men-at-arms 
came to the valley, but the knight that had ever 
been foremost in the fight would not ride out to 
meet them, but kept his bed. The manor lay off 
the road, and he ordered a boy to lie in the copse 
beside the way, and to come up to the house to 
tell him if any soldiers went by. But a troop of 



THE HILL OF TROUBLE 203 

horse came secretly over the hill ; and seeing the 
place lie so solitary and deserted, and being in 
haste, they came not in, but one of them shot a 
bolt at a venture ; but the knight, it seemed, must 
have stolen from his bed, and have been peeping 
through the shutters ; for the knight's lady who 
sate below in sore shame and grief for her husband's 
cowardice, heard a cry, and coming up found him 
in his bedgown lying by the window, and a bolt 
sticking in his brain. 

Her grief and misery were so sore at this, that 
she was for a time nearly mad ; they buried the 
knight in secret in the churchyard ; but the lady 
sate for many days speaking to no one, beating 
with her hand upon the table and eating little. 

One day it seems that she had the thought to 
go herself to the Hill of Trouble, so she robed herself 
in haste, and went at early dawn ; she went in 
secret, and came back at noon, smiling to herself, 
with all her grief gone ; and she sate for three 
days thus with her hands folded, and from her 
face it was plain that there was joy in her heart ; 
and on the third evening they found her cold and 
stiff in her chair, dead an hour since, but she was 
still smiling. And the lands passed to a distant 
kinsman. And since that day, said the old man, 
no one had ever set foot on the Hill, except a child 
not long since that strayed thither, and came back 
in a great fear, saying that he had seen and spoken 
with an old man, that had seemed to be angry, 
but that another person, all in white, had come 
between them, and had led him by the hand to 



204 THE HILL OF TROUBLE 

the right road ; it could not be known why the 
child was frightened, but he said that it was the 
way the old man looked, and the suddenness with 
which he came and went ; but of the other he had 
no fear, though he knew him not. " And that, 
sir, is the tale." 

Gilbert was very much astonished at the tale, 
and though he was not credulous, the story dwelt 
strongly in his mind. It was now too late to visit 
the Hill, even if he had wished ; and he could not 
have so vexed the old man as to visit it from his 
house. He stood for awhile at the gate looking 
down at it. It was hot and still in the valley. 
The tide was out and the warm air quivered over 
the sandbanks. But the Hill had a stillness of its 
own, as though it guarded a secret, and lay looking 
out towards the sea. He could see the small crags 
upon it, in the calm air, and the bushes that grew 
plentifully all over it, with here and there a little 
green lawn, or a glade sloping down to the green 
flat in which it stood. The old man was beside 
him and said in his shrill piping voice, " You are 
not thinking of going to the Hill, sir ? " " Not 
now, at all events," said Gilbert, smiling. But the 
old man said, " Ah, sir, 3^ou will not go — there are 
other things in this world of ours, beside the hills 
and woods and farms ; it would be strange if that 
were all. The spirits of the dead walk at noonday 
in the places they have loved ; and I have thought 
that the souls of those who have done wickedness 
are sometimes bound to a place where they might 
have done good things, and while they are vexed 



THE HILL OF TROUBLE 205 

at all the evil their hands have wrought, they are 
drawn by a kind of evil habit to do what they 
chose to do on earth. Perhaps those who are faith- 
ful can resist them — ^but it is ill to tempt them." 

Gilbert was surprised at this wise talk from so 
simple a man ; and he said, " How is it that these 
thoughts come into your mind ? " " Oh, sir," 
said the other, " I am old and live much alone ; 
and these are some of the thoughts that come into 
my head as I go about my work, but who sends 
them to me I cannot tell." 

Then Gilbert said farewell, and would have paid 
for his meal, but the old man courteousty refused, 
and said that it was a pleasure to see a stranger 
in that lonely place ; and that it made him think 
more kindly of the world to talk so simply with one 
who was, he was sure, so great a gentleman. 

Gilbert smiled, and said he was only a simple 
scholar ; and then he went back to the vicarage 
house. He told the Vicar of his adventure, and 
the Vicar said he had heard of the Hill, and that 
there was something strange in the dread which 
the place inspired. Then Gilbert said, half im- 
patiently, that it was a pity that people were so 
ridden by needless superstition, and made fears for 
themselves when there was so much in the world 
that it was well to fear. But the old Vicar shook 
his head. ** They are children, it is true," he said, 
" but children, I often think, are nearer to heaven 
than ourselves, and perhaps have glimpses of things 
that it is harder for us to see as we get older and 
more dull." 



2o6 THE HILL OF TROUBLE 

But Gilbert made up his niind as they talked 
that he would see the place for himsel f ; and that 
night he dreamed of wandering over lonely places 
with a fear upon him of he knew not what. And 
waking very early, after a restless night, and seeing 
the day freshty risen, and the dew}^ brightness of 
the valley, he put on his clothes in haste, and taking 
with him a slice of bread from the table, he set 
out blithely for the Hill, with an eagerness of spirit 
that he had been used to feel as a child. 

He avoided the farm, and took a track that 
seemicd to lead into the valley, which led him up 
and down through little nooks and pastures, till 
he came to the base of the Hill. It was all skirted 
b}^ a low wall of piled stones covered with gre}' 
lichens, where the brambles grew freely ; but the 
grass upon the Hill itself had a peculiar richness 
and luxuriance, as though it was never trodden 
or crushed underfoot. Gilbert climbed the wall, 
but the brambles clung to him as though to keep 
him back ; he disentangled them one by one, and 
in a moment he found himself in a little green 
glade, among small crags, that seemed to lead to 
the top of the Hill. He had not gone more than 
a few paces when the pleasure and excitement died 
out of his mind, and left him feeling weary and 
dispirited. But he said to himself that it was his 
troubled night, and the walk at the unusual hour, 
and the lack of food ; so he took out his bread 
and ate it as he walked, and presently he came 
to the top. 

Then he suddenly saw that he was at the place 



THE HILL OF TROUBLE 207 

described ; in front of him stood a tall circle of 
stones, very gi-ey with age. Some of them were 
flung down and were covered with bushes, but 
several of them stood upright. The place was 
strangety silent ; he walked round the circle, and 
saw that it occupied the top of the Hill ; below 
him were steep crags, and when he looked over 
he was surprised to see all down the rocks, on 
ledges, a number of crows that sate silent in the 
sun. At the motion he made, a number of them, 
as though surprised to be disturbed, floated off into 
the air, v/ith loud jangling cries ; and a hawk 
sailed out from the bushes and hung, a brown 
speck, with trembling wdngs. Gilbert saw the rich 
plain at liis feet and the winding creek of the sea, 
and the great hills on left and right, in a blue haze. 
Then he stepped back, and though he had a feeling 
that it would be wiser not to go, he put it aside 
and went boldly into the circle of stones. He 
stood there for a moment, and then feeling very 
weary, sate down on the turf, leaning his back 
against a stone ; then came upon him a gi'eat 
drowsiness. He was haunted by a sense that it 
was not well to sleep there, and that the dreaming 
mind was an ill defence against the powers of the 
air — yet he put the thought aside with a certain 
shame and fell asleep. 

He woke with a sudden start some time after ; 
here was a chill in his limbs, not from the air 
which glowed bright in the steady sun, but a chill 
of the spirit that made his hair prickle in an un- 
usual way. He raised himself up and looked 



2o8 THE HILL OF TROUBLE 

round him, for he knew by a certain sense that he 
was not alone ; and then he saw leaning against 
one of the stones and watching him intently, a 
very old and weary-looking man. The man was 
pale and troubled ; he had a rough cloak such as 
the peasants wore, the hood of which was pulled 
over his head ; his hair was white and hung about 
his ears ; he had a staff in his hand. But there 
was a dark look about him, and Gilbert divined in 
some swift passage of the spirit that he did not 
wish him well. Gilbert rose to his feet, and at the 
same moment the old man drew near ; and though 
he looked so old and feeble, Gilbert had the feeling 
that he was strong and even dangerous. But Gil- 
bert showed no surprise ; he doffed his hat to the 
old man, and said courteously that he hoped he 
had not wandered to some private place, where 
he ought not to be. " The heat was great, and I 
slept unawares," he said. The old man at first 
made no answer, and then said in a very low and 
yet clear voice, " Nay, sir, you are welcome. The 
Hill is free to all ; but it has an evil name, I know, 
and I see but few upon it." Then Gilbert said 
courteously that he was but a passer-by, and that 
he must set off home again, before the sun was 
high. And at that the old man said, " Nay, sir, 
but as you have come, you will surely wait awhile 
and speak with me. I see," he added, "so few of 
humankind, that my mind and tongue are alike 
stiff with disuse ; but you can tell me something 
of your world — and I," he added, " can tell you 
something of mine." Then there came suddenly 



THE HILL OF TROUBLE 209 

on Gilbert a great fear, and he looked round on the 
tall stones of the circle that seemed to be like a 
prison. Then he said, " I am but a simple scholar 
from Cambridge, and my knowledge of the world 
is but small ; we work," he said, " we write and 
read, we talk and eat together, and sometimes we 
pray." The old man looked at him with a sudden 
look, under his brows, as he said the words ; and 
then he said, " So, sir, you are a priest ; and your 
faith is a strong one and avails much ; but there 
is a text about the strong man armed who is over- 
come of the stronger. And though the faith you 
teach is like a fort in an enemy's country, in which 
men may dwell safely, yet there is a land outside ; 
and a fort cannot always hold its own." He said 
this in so evil and menacing a tone that Gilbert 
said, " Come, sir, these are wild words ; would you 
speak scorn of the faith that is the light of God 
and the victory that overcometh ? " Then the 
old man said, " Nay, I respect the faith — and fear 
it even," he added in a secret tone — " but I have 
grown up in a different belief, and the old is better 
— and this also is a little stronghold, which holds 
its own in the midst of foes ; but I would not be 
disputing," he added — and then with a smile, 
" Nay, sir, I know what is in your mind ; you like 
not this place — and you are right ; it is not fit for 
you to set your holy feet in ; but it is mine yet ; 
and so you must even accept the hospitality of the 
place ; you shall look thrice in my glass, and see 
if you like what you shall see." And he held out 
to Gilbert a small black shining thing. Gilbert 

o 



2IO THE HILL OF TROUBLE 

would have wished to refuse it, but his courtesy 
bade him take it — and indeed he did not know if 
he could have refused the old man, who looked so 
sternly upon him. So he took it in his hand. It 
was a black polished stone like a sphere, and it 
was very cold to the touch — so cold that he would 
fain have thrown it down ; but he dared not. So 
he said with such spirit as he could muster, " And 
Vv^hat shall I see beside the stone ? — it seems a fair 
and curious jewel — I cannot give it a name." 
" Nay," said the old man sharply, "it is not 
the stone ; the stone is naught ; but it hides a 
mystery. You shall see it in the stone." 

And Gilbert said, " And what shall I see in 
the stone ? " And the old man said, " What 
shall be." 

So Gilbert looked upon the stone ; the sun shone 
upon it in a bright point of light — and for an in- 
stant he saw nothing but the gleaming sides of the 
ball. But in a moment there came upon him a 
dizziness like that which comes upon a man who, 
v/alking on a hill-top, finds himself on the edge of 
a precipice. He seem.ed to look into a great depth, 
into the dark places of the earth — but in the depth 
there hung a mist like a curtain. Now while he 
looked at it he saw a commotion in the mist ; and 
looking closer, he saw that it seemed to be some- 
thing waving to and fro that drove the mist about ; 
and presently he saw the two arms of a man ; and 
then the mist parted, and he saw the figure of a 
man standing and waving with his arms, like a 
man who would fan smoke aside ; and the smoke 



THE HILL OF TROUBLE 211 

fled from the waving arms and rolled away ; and 
the man stepped aside. 

Then Gilbert looked beyond, and he saw a room 
with a low ceiling and a muUioned window ; and 
he knew it at once for his room in St. Peter's 
College. There were books on the table ; and he 
saw what seemed like himself, risen to his feet, as 
though at a sound ; and then he saw the door 
open and a man come in who made an obeisance, 
and the two seemed to talk together, and presently 
Gilbert saw the other man pull something from a 
cloth and put it in his own hands. And the figure 
of himself seemed to draw near the window to look 
at the thing ; and though it was all very small and 
distant, yet Gilbert could see that he held in his 
hands a little figure that seemed a statue. And 
then the mist rolled in again and all was hid. 

He came to himself like a man out of a dream, 
he had been so intent on what appeared ; and he 
saw the hill-top and the circle of stones, and the 
old m.an who stood watching him with a secret 
smile upon his face. Then Gilbert made as though 
he would give the stone back, but before he could 
speak, the old man pointed to the stone again — 
and Gilbert looked again and saw the deep place, 
and the cloud, and the man part the cloud. 

Then he saw within a garden, and he knew it 
at once to be the garden of St. Peter's ; it seemed 
to be summer, for the trees were in leaf. He saw 
himself stand, carrying something in his hand, and 
looking at a place in the garden wall. There was 
something on the wall, a patch of v/hite, but he 



212 THE HILL OF TROUBLE 

could not see what it was ; and beneath it there 
stood a small group of men in scholars' dress who 
looked upon the wall, but he could not see their 
faces ; but one whom he recognised as the Master 
of the College stood with a stick in his hand, and 
pointed to the white patch on the wall — and then 
something seemed to run by, a cat or dog, and all 
at once the cloud flowed in over the picture ; and 
again he came to himself and saw the hill-top, and 
the stones, and the old man, who had drawn a little 
nearer, and looked at him with a strange smile. 
And again he pointed to the stone ; and Gilbert 
looked again and saw the cloud work very swiftly 
and part, and the man who swept the clouds oft 
came forth for an instant, and then was lost to 
view. 

And Gilbert saw a very dark place, with some- 
thing long and white, that glimmered faintly, lying 
in the midst ; and he bent down to look at it, but 
could not discern what it was. Then he saw in 
the darkness which surrounded the glimmering 
thing some small threads of dusky white, and some 
small round things ; and he looked at them long ; 
and presently discerned that the round things 
were pebbles, and that the white threads were like 
the roots of trees ; and then he perceived that he 
was looking into the earth ; and then with a sickly 
chill of fear he saw that the long and glimmering 
thing was indeed the body of a man, wrapped in 
grave-clothes from head to foot. And he could 
now distinguish — for it grew more distinct — the 
sides of a coffin about it, and some worms that 



THE HILL OF TROUBLE 213 

moved to and fro in their dark burrows ; but the 
corpse seemed to shine with a faint hght of its 
own — and then he could see the wasted feet, and the 
thin legs and arms of the body within ; the hands 
were folded over the breast ; and then he looked at 
the face ; and he saw his own face, only greatly sunk 
and fallen, with a bandage that tied up the chin, and 
leaden eyes ; and then the clouds swept in upon it ; 
and he came to himself like a drowning man, and 
saw that he was in the same place ; and his first 
thought was a thrill of joy to know that he was alive ; 
but then he groaned aloud, and he saw the old man 
stand beside him with a very terrible look upon his 
face, holding out his hand for the stone in silence ; 
so Gilbert gave him back the stone, and then with a 
fierce anger said, " Why have you shown me this ? 
for this is the trickery of hell." And the old man 
looked at him very sternly and said, " Why then 
did you come to this place ? You were not called 
hither, and they that pry must be punished. A 
man who pulls open the door which leads from the 
present into the future must not be vexed if he sees 
the truth — and now, sir," he added very angrily, 
" depart hence in haste ; you have seen what you 
have seen." So Gilbert went slowly from the 
circle, and very heavily, and as he stepped outside 
he looked back. But there was nothing there but 
the turf and the grey stones. 

Gilbert went slowly down the Hill with a shadow 
upon him, like a man who has passed through a 
sudden danger, or who has had a sudden glimpse 
into the dark realities of life. But the whole 



214 THE HILL OF TROUBLE 

experience was so strange and dreamlike, so apart 
from the wholesome current of his life, that his 
fears troubled him less than he had supposed ; 
still, a kind of hatred for the quiet valley began to 
creep over him, and he found himself sitting long 
over his books, looking down among the hills, and 
making no progress. If he was not silent when 
in company with the old Vicar, it was because he 
made a strong effort, and because his courtesy came 
to his assistance. Indeed the old Vicar thought 
that he had never known Gilbert so tender or 
thoughtful as he had been in the last week of 
his visit. The truth was that it was an effort to 
Gilbert to talk about himself, and he therefore drew 
the old priest on to talk about the details of his 
own life and work. Thus, though Gilbert talked 
less himself, he was courteously attentive, so that 
the old man had a sense that there had been much 
pleasant interchange of feeling, whereas he had 
contributed the most of the talk himself. Gilbert, 
too, found a great comfort in the offices of the 
Church in these days, and prayed much that, what- 
ever should befall him, he might learn to rest in 
the mighty will of God for himself, whatever that 
will might be. 

Soon after this he went back to Cambridge, and 
there, among his old friends and in his accustomed 
haunts, the whole impression of the vision on the 
Hill of Trouble grew faint and indistinct, especially 
as no incident occurred to revive it. He threw 
himself into his work, and the book grew under 
his hands ; and he seemed to be more eager to fill 



THE HILL OF TROUBLE 215 

his hours than before, and avoided soHtary medi- 
tation. 

Some three years after the date of his vision, 
there was announced to him by letter the advent 
of a great scholar to Cambridge, who had read one 
of Gilbert's books, and was desirous to be intro- 
duced to him. Gilbert was sitting one day in his 
rooms, after a happy quiet morning, when the 
porter came to the door and announced the scholar. 
He was a tall eager man, who came forward with 
great friendliness, and said some courteous words 
about his pleasure at having met one whom he was 
so desirous to see. He carried something in his 
hand, and after the first compliments, said that 
he had ventured to bring Gilbert a little curiosity 
that had lately been dug up at Rom.e, and which 
he had been fortunate in securing. He drew off 
a wrapper, and held out to Gilbert a little figure 
of a Muse, finely sculptured, with an inscription 
on the pedestal. Gilbert stepped to the window 
to look at it, and as he did so it flashed across his 
mind that this was surely the scene that he had 
observed in the black stone. He stood for a moment 
with the statue in his hand, with such a strange 
look in his face, that the new-comer thought for 
an instant that his gift must have aroused som.e 
sad association. But Gilbert recovered himself 
in a moment and resolutely put the thought out 
of his mind, praised the statue, and thereupon 
entered into easy talk. 

The great scholar spent some days at Cambridge, 
and Gilbert was much with him. They talked of 



2i6 THE HILL OF TROUBLE 

learned matters together, but the great scholar 
said afterwards that though Gilbert was a man 
of high genius and of great insight into learning, 
yet he felt in talking with him as though he had 
some further and deeper preoccupation of thought. 

Indeed when Gilbert, by la^dng of dates together, 
became aware that it was three years to a day since 
he had seen the vision in the stone, he was often 
haunted by the thought of his visit to the Hill. 
But this lasted only a few days ; and he took 
comfort at the thought that he had seen a further 
vision in the stone which seemed at least to promise 
him three more peaceful years of unchanged work, 
before he need give way to the heaviness that the 
third vision had caused him. Yet it lay like a 
dark background in his thoughts. 

He kept very much to his work after this event, 
and became graver and sterner in face, so that his 
friends thought that his application to study was 
harmful. But when they spoke of it to Gilbert, 
he used to say laughingl}/ that nothing but work 
made life worthy, and that he was making haste ; 
and indeed the great book grew so fast that he was 
within sight of the end. He had many wrestles 
within himself, about this time, as to the goodness 
and providence of God. He argued to himself 
that he had been led very tenderly beside the waters 
of comfort, that he had served God as faithfully 
as he could — and indeed he had little to reproach 
himself with, though he began to blame himself 
for living a life that pleased him, and for not going 
about more in the world helping weak brethren 



THE HILL OF TROUBLE 217 

along the way, as the Lord Christ had done. Yet 
again he said to himself that the great doctors 
and fathers of the Church had deemed it praise- 
worthy that a man should devote all the power of 
his brain to making the divine oracle clear, and 
that the apostle Paul had spoken of a great diver- 
sity of gifts which could be used faithfully in the 
service of Christ. Still, he reflected that the truest 
glimpse into the unknown that he had ever received 
— for he doubted no longer of the truth of the 
vision — had come to him from one that was, he 
thought, outside the mercies of God, an unhallowed 
soul, shut off by his own will and b}^ his wicked- 
ness from the fold ; and this was a sore burden 
to him. 

At last the book was done ; and he went with 
it to a friend he had at Oxford, a mighty scholar, 
to talk over some difficult passages. The opinion 
of the scholar had been cordial and encouraging ; 
he had said that the book was a very great and 
sound work, useful for doctrine and exhortation, 
and that many men had given their whole lives 
to work without achieving such a result. Gilbert 
had some of the happiness which comes to one who 
has completed a lengthy task ; and though the time 
drew nigh at which he might expect a further ful- 
filment of the vision, he was so filled with grati- 
tude at the thought of the great work he had done, 
that there was little fear or expectation in his 
mind. 

He returned one summer afternoon to Cambridge, 
and the porter told him that the Master and several 



2i8 THE HILL OF TROUBLE 

of the Fellows were in the garden, and would fain 
see him on his arrival. So Gilbert, carrying a 
little bundle which contained his precious book, 
went out there at once. The Master had caused 
to be made a new sundial, which he had affixed in 
such a way to the wall that those whose chambers 
gave on the garden could read the time of day 
Vvdthout waiting to hear the bells. 

When Gilbert came out he saw the little group 
of Fellows standing by the wall, while the Master 
with a staff pointed out the legend on the dial, 
which said that the only hours it told were the 
hours of sunshine. It came upon Gilbert in a 
moment that this w^as the second vision, and though 
two or three of the group saw him and turned to 
him with pleasant greetings, he stood for a moment 
lost in the strangeness of the thing. One of them 
said, " He stands amazed at the novelty of the 
design ; " and as he said the words, an old gray 
cat that belonged to the College, and lodged some- 
where in the roofs, sprang from a bush and ran 
past him. One of the Fellows said, " Aha, cats 
do not love change ! " and then Gilbert came for- 
ward, and greeted his friends ; but there lay a 
cold and terrible thought in the background of 
his mind, and he could not keep it out of his face ; 
so that one of the Fellows, drawing him aside, 
asked if he had a good verdict on the book, for 
he seemed as one that was ill-pleased. And the 
Master, fearing that Gilbert did not like the dial, 
came and said to him courteously that he knew 
it was a new-fangled thing, but that it was useful, 



THE HILL OF TROUBLE 219 

and in itself not unpleasant, and that it would 
soon catch a grace of congruity from the vener- 
able walls around. "But," he added, " if you do 
not like it, it shall be put in some other place." 
Then Gilbert bestirred himself and said that he 
liked the dial very well, so that the Master was 
content. 

But Gilbert, as soon as he was by himself, de- 
livered his mind up to heavy contemplation ; the 
vision had twice fulfilled itself, and it was hardly 
to be hoped that it would fail the third time. He 
sent his book to be copied out fair, and when it 
was gone it was as though he had lost his com- 
panion. The hours passed very slowly and drearily ; 
he wrote a paper, to fill the time, of his wishes with 
regard to what should be done with his books and 
little property after his death, and was half minded 
to tear it up again. And then after a few days of 
purposeless and irresolute waiting, he made up 
his mind that he must go again to the West, and 
see his friend the old priest. And though he did 
not say it to himself in words, yet a purpose slowly 
shaped itself in his mind that he must at all cost 
go to the Hill, and learn again what should be, 
and that thus alone could he break the spell. 

He spent a morning in making his farewells ; 
he tried to speak to his friends as usual, but they 
noticed long afterwards that he had used a special 
tenderness and wistfulness in all he said ; he sate 
long in his own room, with a great love in his heart 
for the beautiful and holy peace of the place, and 
for all the happiness he had known there ; and then 



220 THE HILL OF TROUBLE 

he prayed very long and earnestly in the chapel, 
kneeling in his stall ; and his heart was somewhat 
lightened. 

Then he set off ; but before he mounted his 
horse he looked very lovingly at the old front of 
the College, and his servant saw that his eyes were 
full of tears and that his lips moved ; and so Gilbert 
rode along to the West. 

His journey was very different from the same 
journey taken six years before ; he spoke with 
none, and rode busily, like one who is anxious to 
see some sad errand through. He found the old 
Vicar still more infirm and somewhat blind ; but 
the Vicar said that he was very happy to see him, 
as he himself was near the end of life, and that he 
could hope for but few years, — adding that it was 
far different for Gilbert, who, he supposed, would 
very soon be a Dean with a Cathedral of his own, 
and would forget his humble friend the old Vicar. 
But Gilbert put the wit aside, and talked earnestly 
with the Vicar about the end of life and what might 
be hereafter. But the old Vicar said solemnly 
that he knew not, and indeed cared little. But 
that he would go into the dark like a child holding 
a loving hand, and would have no need to fear. 

That night Gilbert lay in his bed awake, and 
very strange thoughts passed through his mind, 
which he strove to quiet by prayers ; and so fell 
asleep ; till at last in the dim dawn he awoke. 
Then after a moment's thought he took a paper 
and wrote on it, saying that he was gone out and 
knew not when he would return ; but he prayed 



THE HILL OF TROUBLE 221 

the Vicar that when he should find the paper, he 
should at once fall to prayer for hhn, for there was 
a sore conflict before him to fight out, both in soul 
and body, and what would be the issue he knew 
not. " And if," the end of the writing ran, " I 
must depart hence, then pray that my passage may 
be easy, and that I may find the valley bright." 
And he laid the paper upon the table. Then he 
dressed himself, and went out alone into the valley, 
walking swiftly and intently — so intently that when 
he passed the farm he marked not that the old 
farmer was sitting in an arbour in the garden, who 
called shrilly to him ; but Gilbert heard not, and 
the old farmer was too weak to follow ; so Gilbert 
went down to the Hill of Trouble. 

It lay, as it had lain six years before, very still 
and beautiful in the breathless sunshine. The 
water was in the creek, a streak of sapphire blue ; 
the birds called in the crags, and the bushes and 
lawns glistened fresh with dev/. 

But Gilbert, very pale and with his heart beating 
fast, came to the wall and surmounted it, and went 
swiftly up the Hill, till he found himself near the 
stones ; then he looked once round upon the hills 
and the sea, and then wath a word of prayer he 
stepped within the circle. 

This time he had not long to wait. As he entered 
the circle he saw the old man enter from the opposite 
side and come to meet him, with a strange light of 
triumph in his eyes. Then Gilbert looked him in 
the face with a rising horror, and said, " Sir, I have 
come again ; and I doubt the truth of your vision 



222 THE HILL OF TROUBLE 

no longer ; I have done my work, and I have twice 
seen the fulfilment — now therefore tell me of my 
end — ^that I may be certified how long I have to 
live. For the shadow of the doubt I cannot 
bear." 

And the old man looked at him with something 
of compassion and said, " You are 3'oung, and you 
fear the passage hence, knowing not what may be 
on the other side of the door ; but you need not 
fear. Even I, who have small ground of hope, 
am ashamed that I feared it so much. But what 
will you give me if I grant your boon ? " 

Then Gilbert said, *' I have nothing to give." 

Then the old man said, " Think once more." 
Then was there a silence ; and Gilbert said ; 

** Man, I know not what or who thou art ; but 
I think that thou art a lost soul ; one thing I can 
give thee. ... I will m.yself intercede for thee 
before the Throne." 

Then the old man looked at him for a moment, 
and said, " I have waited long . . . and have re- 
ceived no comfort till now ; " and then he said, 
" Wilt thou promise ? " 

And Gilbert said, " In the name of God, Amen." 

Then the old man stretched out his hand and 
said, *' Art thou ready ? for the time is come ; 
and thou art called now ; " and he touched Gilbert 
on the breast. 

Gilbert looked into the old man's eyes, and 
seemed to see there an unfathomable sadness, such 
as he had never seen ; but at the touch a pain so 
fierce and agonising passed through him, that he 



THE HILL OF TROUBLE 223 

sank upon the ground and covered his face with 
his hands. 

Just at this time the old priest found the paper ; 
and he divined the truth. So he called his servant 
and bade him saddle his horse in haste ; and then 
he fell to prayer. 

Then he rode down the valley ; and though he 
feared the place, ^^et he rode to the Hill of Trouble ; 
and though his sight was dim and his limbs feeble, 
it seemed to him that some one walked beside the 
horse and guided him ; and as he prayed he knew 
that all was over, and that Gilbert had peace. 

He came soon to the place ; and there he found 
Gilbert lying on the turf ; and his sight was so dim 
that it seemed to him as though some one slipped 
away from Gilbert's side He put Gilbert on his 
horse, and held the poor helpless body thereon, 
but there was so gentle a smile on the face of the 
dead that he could not fear. 

The body of Gilbert lies in the little churchyard ; 
his great book keeps his memory bright ; and on 
the top of the Hill of Trouble stands a little chapel, 
built out of the stones of the circle ; and on the 
wall, painted at the old priest's charge, is a picture 
of the Lord Christ, with wounded hands and side, 
preaching to the disobedient spirits in prison ; 
and they hear him and are glad. 



THE GRAY CAT 

The knight Sir James Leigh lived in a remote 
valley of the Welsh Hills. The manor house, of 
rough grey stone, with thick walls and mullioned 
windows, stood on a rising ground ; at its foot 
ran a little river, through great boulders. There 
were woods all about ; but above the woods, the 
bare green hills ran smoothly up, so high, that in 
the winter the sun only peeped above the ridge 
for an hour or two ; bej^ond the house, the valley 
wound away into the heart of the hills, and at the 
end a black peak looked over. The place was 
ver}^ sparsely inhabited ; within a close of ancient 
yew trees stood a little stone church, and a small 
parsonage smothered in ivy, where an old priest, 
a cousin of the knight, lived. There were but three 
farms in the valley, and a rough track led over the 
hills, httle used, except by drovers. At the top 
of the pass stood a stone cross ; and from this point 
you could see the dark scarred face of the peak to 
the left, streaked with snow, which did not melt 
until the summer was far advanced. 

Sir James was a silent sad man, in ill-health ; 
he spoke little and bore his troubles bitterly ; he 
was much impoverished, through his own early 
carelessness, and now so feeeble in body that he 

had small hope of repairing the fortune he had lost. 

224 



THE GRAY CAT 225 

His wife was a wise and loving woman, who, though 
she found it hard to Hve happily in so lonely a 
place with a sickly husband, met her sorrows with 
a cheerful face, visited her poorer neighbours, and 
was like a ray of sunlight in the gloomy valley. 
They had one son, a boy Roderick, now about 
fifteen ; he was a bright and eager child, who was 
happy enough, taking his life as he found it — and 
indeed he had known no other. He was taught a 
little by the priest ; but he had no other schooling, 
for Sir James would spend no money except when 
he was obliged to do so. Roderick had no playmates, 
but he never found the time to be heav}.^ ; he 
was fond of long solitary rambles on the hills, 
being light of foot and strong. 

One day he had gone out to fish in the stream, 
but it was bright and still, and he could catch 
nothing ; so at last he laid his rod aside in a hollow 
place beneath the bank, and wandered without 
any certain aim along the stream. Higher and 
higher he went, till he found, looking about him, 
that he was as high as the pass ; and then it came 
into his mind to track the stream to its source. The 
Manor was now out of sight, and there was nothing 
round him but the high green hills, with here and 
there a sheep feeding. Once a kite came out and 
circled slowly in the sun, pouncing like a plummet 
far down the glen ; and still Roderick went onwards 
till he saw that he was at the top of the lower hills, 
and that the only thing higher than him was the 
peak itself. He saw now that the stream ran out 
of a still black pool some way in front of him, that 

p 



226 THE GRAY CAT 

lay under the very shadow of the dark precipice, 
and was fed by the snows that melted from the 
face. It was surrounded by rocks that lay piled 
in confusion. But the whole place wore an air 
that was more than desolate ; the peak itself had 
a cruel look, and there was an intent silence, which 
was only broken, as he gazed, by the sound of rocks 
falling loudly from the face of the hill and thunder- 
ing down. The sun warned him that he had gone 
far enough ; and he determined to go homewards, 
half pleased at his discovery, and half relieved to 
quit so lonely and grim a spot. 

That evening, when he sate with his father and 
mother at their simple meal, he began to say where 
he had been. His father heard him with little 
attention, but when Roderick described the dark 
pool and the sharp front of the peak he asked him 
abruptly how near he had gone to the pool. 
Roderick said that he had seen it from a distance, 
and then Sir James said somewhat sharply that 
he must not wander so far, and that he was not 
to go near that place again. Roderick was sur- 
prised at this, for his father as a rule interfered 
little with what he did ; but he did not ask his 
father the reason, for there was something peevish, 
even harsh, in his tone. But afterwards, when he 
went out with his mother, leaving the knight to 
his own gloomy thoughts, as his will and custom 
was, his mother said with some urgency, " Roderick, 
promise me not to go to the pool again ; it has 
an evil name, and is better left to itself." Roderick 
was eager to know the story of the place, but his 



THE GRAY CAT 227 

mother would not tell him — only she would have 
him promise ; so he promised, but complained 
that he would rather have had a reason given for 
his promise ; but his mother, smiling and holding 
his hand, said that it should be enough for him to 
please her by doing her will. So Roderick gave 
his promise again, but was not satisfied. 

The next day Roderick was walking in the 
valley and met one of the farmers, a young good- 
humoured man, v/ho had always been friendly 
with the boy, and had often been to fish with him ; 
Roderick walked beside him, and told him that 
he had followed the stream nearly to the pool, 
when the young farmer, with some seriousness, 
asked him how near he had been to the water. 
Roderick was surprised at the same question that 
his father had asked him being asked again, and 
told him that he had but seen it from a hill-top 
near, adding, " But what is amiss with the place, 
for my father and mother have made me promise 
not to go there again ? " 

The young farmer said nothing for a moment, 
but seemed to reflect ; then he said that there 
were stories about the place, stories that perhaps 
it was foolish to believe, but he went on to say 
that it was better to be on the safe side in all things, 
and that the place had an evil fame. Then Roderick 
with childish eagerness asked him what the stories 
were ; and little by little the farmer told him. 
He said that something dwelt near or in the pool, 
it was not known what, that had an enmity to the 
life of man ; that twice since he was a boy a strange 



228 THE GRAY CAT 

thing had happened there ; a young shepherd 
had come by his death at the pool, and was found 
lying in the water, strangely battered ; that, he 
said, was long before Roderick was born ; then 
he added, " You remember old Richard the shep- 
herd ? " "What!" said Roderick, "the old 
strange man that used to go about muttering to 
himself, that the boys threw stones at ? " " Yes," 
said the farmer, " the very same. Well, he was 
not always so — I remember him a strong and 
cheerful man ; but once when the sheep had got 
lost in the hills, he would go to the pool because 
he thought he heard them calling there, though 
we prayed him not to go. He came back, indeed, 
bringing no sheep, but an altered and broken man, 
as he was thenceforth and as you knew him ; he 
had seen something by the pool, he could not 
say what, and had had a sore strife to get away." 
" But what sort of a thing is this ? " said Roderick. 
" Is it a beast or a man, or what ? " 

" Neither, "said the farmer very gravely. " You 
have heard them read in the church of the evil 
spirits who dwelt with men, and entered their 
bodies, and it was sore work even for the Lord 
Christ to cast them forth ; I think it is one of these 
who has wandered thither ; they say he goes not 
far from the pool, for he cannot abide the cross 
on the pass, and the church bell gives him pains." 
And then the farmer looked at Roderick and said, 
" You know that they ring the bell all night on 
the feast of All Souls ? " " Yes," said Roderick, 
" I have heard it ring." " Well, on that night 



THE GRAY CAT 229 

alone/' said the farmer, " they say that spirits 
have power upon men, and come abroad to do them 
hurt ; and so they ring the bell, which the spirits 
cannot listen to — but, young master, it is ill to talk 
of these things, and Christian men should not even 
think of them ; but as I said, though Satan has 
but Httle power over the baptized soul, yet even 
so, sa3^s the priest, he can enter in, if the soul be 
willing to admit him, — ^and so I say, avoid the 
place ! it may be that these are silly stories to affright 
folk, but it is ill to touch pitch ; and no good can 
be got by going to the pool, and perhaps evil ; — 
and now I think I have told you enough and more 
than enough." For Roderick was looking at him 
pale and with wide open eyes. 

Is it strange that from that day the thing that 
Roderick most desired was to see the pool and 
what dwelt there ? I think not ; when hearts 
are young and before trouble has laid its heavy 
hand upon them, the hard and cruel things of life, 
wounds, blows, agonies, terrors, seen only in the 
mirrors of another spirit, are but as a curious and 
lively spectacle that feeds the mind with wonder. 
The stories to which Roderick had listened in church 
of men that were haunted b}^ demons seemed to 
him but as dim and distant experiences on which 
he would fain look ; and the fainter the thought 
of his promise grew, the stronger grew his desire 
to see for himself. 

In the month of June, when the heart is light, 
and the smell of the woods is fresh and sharp, 
Roderick's father and mother were called to go 



230 THE GRAY CAT 

on a journey, to see an ancient friend who was 
thought to be dying. The night before they set 
off Roderick had a strange dream ; it seemed to 
him that he wandered over bare hillsides, and came 
at last to the pool ; the peak rose sharp and clear, 
and the water was very black and still ; while he 
gazed upon it, it seemed to be troubled ; the 
water began to spin round and round, and bubbling 
waves rose and broke on the surface. Suddenly 
a hand emerged from the water, and then a head, 
bright and unwetted, as though the water had 
no power to touch it. Roderick saw that it was 
a man of youthful aspect and commanding mien ; 
he waded out to the shore and stood for a moment 
looking round him ; then he beckoned Roderick 
to approach, looking at him kindly, and spoke to 
him gently, saying that he had waited for him 
long. They walked together to the crag, and then, 
in some way that Roderick could not clearly see, 
the man opened a door into the mountain, and 
Roderick saw a glimmering passage within. The 
air came out laden with a rich and heavy fragrance, 
and there was a faint sound of distant music in the 
hill. The man turned and looked upon Roderick 
as though inviting him to enter ; but Roderick 
shook his head and refused, saying that he was 
not ready ; at which the man stepped inside with 
a smile, half of pity, and the door was shut. 

Then Roderick woke with a start and wished 
that he had been bold enough to go within the 
door ; the light came in serenely through the 
window, and he heard the faint piping of awaken- 



THE GRAY CAT 231 

ing birds in the dewy trees. He could not sleep, 
and presently dressed himself and went down. 
Soon the household was awake, for the knight 
was to start betimes ; Roderick sate at the early 
meal with his father and mother. His father was 
cumbered with the thought of the troublesome 
journey, and asked many questions about the 
baggage ; so Roderick said little, but felt his 
mother's eyes dwell on his face with love. Soon 
after they rode away ; Roderick stood at the door 
to see them go, and there was so eager and bright 
a look in his face that his mother was somehow 
troubled, and almost called him to her to make 
him repeat his promise, but she feared that he 
would feel that she did not trust him, and there- 
fore put the thought aside ; and so they rode away, 
his mother waving her hand till they turned the 
corner by the wood and were out of sight. 

Then Roderick began to consider how he would 
spend the day, with a half -formed design in his 
mind ; when suddenly the temptation to visit 
the pool came upon him with a force that he had 
neither strength nor inclination to resist. So he 
took his rod, which might seem to be an excuse, 
and set off rapidly up the stream. He was sur- 
prised to find how swiftly the hills rose all about 
him, and how easily he went ; very soon he came 
to the top ; and there lay the pool in front of him, 
within the shadow of the peak, that rose behind 
it very clear and sharp. He hesitated no longer, 
but ran lightly down the slope, and next moment 
he was on the brink of the pool. It lay before 



232 THE GRAY CAT 

him ver}^ bright and pure, like a jewel of sapphire, 
the water being of a deep azure blue ; he went 
all round it. There was no sign of life in the water ; 
at the end nearest the cliff he found a little cool 
runnel of water that bubbled into the pool from 
the cliffs. No grass grew round about it, and he 
could see the stones sloping down and becoming 
more beautiful the deeper they lay, from the pure 
tint of the water. 

He looked all around him ; the moorland quivered 
in the bright hot air, and he could see far away the 
hills lie like a map, with blue mountains on the 
horizon, and small green valleys where men dwelt- 
He sate down by the pool, and he had a thought 
of bathing in the water ; but his courage did not 
rise to this, because he felt still as though something 
sate in the depths that would not show itself, but 
might come forth and drag him down ; so he sate 
at last by the pool, and presently he fell asleep. 

When he woke he felt somewhat chilly ; the 
shadow of the peak had come round, and fell on 
the water ; the place was still as calm as ever, 
but looking upon the pool he had an obscure sense 
as though he were being watched by an unclosing 
eye ; but he was thirsting with the heat ; so he 
drew up, in his closed hands, some of the water, 
which was very cool and sweet ; and his drowsi- 
ness came upon him, and again he slept. 

When next he woke it was with a sense of de- 
licious ease, and the thought that some one who 
loved him was near him stroking his hand. He 
looked up, and there close to his side sate very 



THE GRAY CAT 233 

quietly what gave him a shock of surprise. It was 
a great gray cat, with soft abundant fur, which 
turned its yellow eyes upon him lazily, purred, 
and licked his hand ; he caressed the cat, which 
arched its back and seemed pleased to be with 
him, and presently leapt upon his knee. The soft 
warmth of the fur against his hands, and the wel- 
coming caresses of this fearless wild creature pleased 
him greatly ; and he sate long in quiet thought, 
taking care not to disturb the cat, which, when- 
ever he took his hand away, rubbed against him 
as though to shov/ that it was pleased at his 
touch. But at last he thought that he must go 
homewards, for the day began to turn to the west. 
So he put the cat off his knee and began to walk 
to the top of the pass, as it was quicker to follow the 
road. For awhile the cat accompanied him, some- 
times rubbing against his leg and sometimes walking 
in front, but looking round from time to time as 
though to consult his pleasure. 

Roderick began to hope that it would accompany 
him home, but at a certain place the cat stopped, 
and would go no farther. Roderick lifted it up, 
but it leapt from him as if displeased, and at last 
he left it reluctantly. In a moment he came within 
sight of the cross in the hilltop, so that he saw 
the road was near. Often he looked round and 
saw the great cat regarding him as though it were 
sorry to be left ; till at last he could see it no 
more. 

He went home well pleased, his head full of 
happy thoughts ; he had gone half expecting to 



234 THE GRAY CAT 

see some dreadful thing, but had found instead a 
creature who seemed to love him. 

The next day he went again ; and this time he 
found the cat sitting by the pool ; as soon as it 
saw him, it ran to him with a glad and yearning 
cry, as though it had feared he would not return ; 
to-day it seemed brighter and larger to look upon ; 
and he was pleased that when he returned by the 
stream it followed him much farther, leaping hghtly 
from stone to stone ; but at a certain place, where 
the valley began to turn eastward, just before the 
little church came in sight, it sate down as before 
and took its leave of him. 

The third day he began to go up the valley 
again ; but while he rested in a little wood that 
came down to the stream, to his surprise and de- 
light the cat sprang out of a bush, and seemed 
more than ever glad of his presence. While he 
sate fondling it, he heard the sound of footsteps 
coming up the path ; but the cat heard the sound 
too, and as he rose to see who was coming, the cat 
sprang lightly into a tree beside him and v/as hidden 
from his sight. It was the old priest on his way to 
an upland farm, who spoke fondly to Roderick, 
and asked him of his father and mother. Roderick 
told him that they were to return that night, and 
said that it was too bright to remain indoors and 
yet too bright to fish ; the priest agreed, and after 
a little more talk rose to go, and as his manner was, 
holding Roderick by the hand, he blessed him, 
saying that he v/as growing a tall boy. When 
he was gone — and Roderick was ashamed to find 



THE GRAY CAT 235 

how eager he was that the priest should go — he 
called low to the cat to come back ; but the cat 
came not, and though Roderick searched the tree 
into which it had sprung, he could find no sign of 
it, and supposed that it had crept into the wood. 

That evening the travellers returned, the knight 
seeming cheerful, because the vexatious journey 
was over ; but Roderick was half ashamed to think 
that his mind had been so full of his new plaything 
that he was hardly glad to see his parents return. 
Presently his mother said, " You look very bright 
and happy, dear child," and Roderick, knowing 
that he spoke falsely, said that he was glad to see 
them again ; his mother smiled and asked him 
what he had been doing, and he said that he bad 
wandered on the hills, for it was too bright to fish ; 
his mother looked at him for a moment, and he 
knew in his heart that she wondered if he had kept 
his promise ; but he thought of his secret, and 
looked at her so straight and full that she asked 
him no further questions. 

The next day he woke feeling sad, because he 
knew that there would be no chance to go to the 
pool. He went to and fro with his mother, for 
she had many little duties to attend to. At last 
she said, "What are you thinking of, Roderick? 
You seem to have little to say to me." She said 
it laughingly ; and Roderick was ashamed, but 
said that he was only thinking ; and so bestirred 
himself to talk. But late in the day he went a 
little alone through the wood, and reaching the 
end of it, looked up to the hill, kissing his hand 



236 THE GRAY CAT 

towards the pool as a greeting to his friend ; and 
as he turned, the cat came swiftly and lovingly 
out of the wood to him ; and he caught it up in 
his arms and clasped it close, where it lay as if 
contented. 

Then he thought that he would carry it to 
the house, and say nothing as to where he had 
found it ; but hardly had he moved a step when 
the cat leapt from him and stood as though angry. 
And it came into Roderick's mind that the cat 
was his secret friend, and that their friendship 
must somehow be unknown ; but he loved it even 
the better for that. 

In the weeks that followed, the knight was ill 
and the lady much at home ; from time to time 
Roderick saw the cat ; he could never tell when 
it would visit him ; it came and went unexpectedly, 
and always in some lonely and secret place. But 
gradually Roderick began to care for nothing else ; 
his fishing and his riding were forgotten, and he 
began to plan how he might be alone, so that the 
cat would come to him. He began to lose his 
spirits and to be dull without it, and to hate the 
hours when he could not see it ; and all the time 
it grew or seemed to grow stronger and sleeker ; 
his mother soon began to notice that he was not 
well ; he became thin and listless, but his eyes 
were large and bright ; she asked him more than 
once if he were well, but he only laughed. Once 
indeed he had a fright ; he had been asleep under a 
hawthorn in the glen on a hot July day ; and waking 
saw the cat close to him, watching him intently 



THE GRAY CAT 237 

with yellow eyes, as though it were about to spring 
upon him ; but seeing him awake, it came wheedling 
and fondling him as often before ; but he could not 
forget the look in its eyes, and felt grave and sad. 

Then he began to be troubled with dreams ; 
the man whom he had seen in his former dream 
rising from the pool was often with him — sometimes 
he led him to pleasant places ; but one dream he 
had, that he was bathing in the pool, and caught 
his foot between the rocks and could not draw it 
out. Then he heard a rushing sound, and looking 
round saw that a great stream of water was plung- 
ing heavily into the pool, so that it rose every 
moment, and was soon up to his chin. Then he 
saw in his dream that the man sate on the edge 
of the pool and looked at him with a cold smile, 
but did not offer to help ; till at last when the* 
water touched his lips, the man rose and held 
up his hand ; and the stream ceased to run, and 
presently his foot came out of the rock easily, and 
he swam ashore but saw no one. 

Then it came to the autumn, and the days grew 
colder and shorter, and he could not be so much 
abroad ; he felt, too, less and less disposed to stir 
out, and it now began to be on his mind that he 
had broken his promise to his mother ; and for a 
week he saw nothing of the cat, though he longed 
to see it. But one night, as he went to bed, when 
he had put out his light, he saw that the moon was 
very bright ; and he opened the window and 
looked out, and saw the gleaming stream and the 
grey valley ; he was turning away, when he heard 



238 THE GRAY CAT 

a light sound of the scratching of claws, and pre- 
sently the cat sprang upon the window-sill and 
entered the room. It was now cold and he got 
into bed, and the cat sprang upon his pillow ; and 
Roderick was so glad that the cat had returned 
that while he caressed it he talked to it in low tones. 
Suddenly came a step at the door, and a light be- 
neath it, and his mother with a candle entered the 
room. She stood for a moment looking, and 
Roderick became aware that the cat was gone. 
Then his mother came near, thinking that he was 
asleep, and he sate up. She said to him., " Dear 
child, I heard you speaking, and wondered whether 
you were in a dream," and she looked at him with 
an anxious gaze. And he said, " Was I speaking, 
mother ? I was asleep and must have spoken in 
a dream." Then she said, " Roderick, you are 
not old enough yet to sleep so uneasily — is all well, 
dear child ? " and Roderick, hating to deceive 
his mother, said, " How should not all be well ? " 
So she kissed him and went quietly away, but 
Roderick heard her sighing. 

Then it came at last to All Souls' Day ; and 
Roderick, going to his bed that night, had a strange 
dizziness and cried out, and found the room swim 
round him. Then he got up into his bed, for he 
thought that he m^ust be ill, and soon fell asleep ; 
and in his sleep he dreamed a dreadful dream. 
He thought that he lay on the hills beside the 
pool ; and yet he v/as out of the body, for he could 
see himself lying there. The pool was very dark, 
and a cold wind ruffled the waves. And again 



THE GRAY CAT 239 

the water was troubled, and the man stepped out ; 
but behind him came another man, hke a hunch- 
back, very swarthy of face, with long thin arms, 
that looked both strong and evil. Then it seemed 
as if the first man pointed to Roderick where he 
lay and said, " You can take him hence, for he is 
mine now, and I have need of him," adding, " Who 
could have thought it would be so easy ? " and then 
he smiled very bitterly. And the hunchback went 
towards himself ; and he tried to cry out in warn- 
ing, and straining woke ; and in the chilly dawn he 
saw the cat sit in his room, but very different from 
what it had been. It was gaunt and famished, 
and the fur was all marred ; its yellow eyes gleamed 
horribly, and Roderick saw that it hated him, he 
knew not why ; and such fear came upon him that 
he screamed out, and as he screamed the cat rose 
as if furious, twitching its tail and opening its 
mouth ; but he heard steps without, and screamed 
again, and his mother came in haste into the room, 
and the cat was gone in a moment, and Roderick 
held out his hands to his mother, and she soothed 
and quieted him, and presently with many sobs 
he told her all the story. 

She did not reproach him, nor say a word of 
his disobedience, the fear was too urgent upon 
her ; she tried to think for a little that it was the 
sight of some real creature lingering in a mind that 
was wrought upon by illness ; but those were not 
the days when men preferred to call the strange 
afflictions of body and spirit, the sad scars that 
stain the fair works of God, by reasonable names. 



240 THE GRAY CAT 

She did not doubt that by some dreadful hap her 
own child had somehow crept within the circle 
of darkness, and she only thought of how to help 
and rescue him ; that he was sorry and that he 
did not wholly consent was her hope. 

So she merely kissed and quieted him, and then 
she told him that she would return anon and he 
must rest quietly ; but he would not let her leave 
him, so she stood in the door and called a servant 
softly. Sir James was long abed, for he had been 
in ill-health that day, and she gave word that some 
one must be found at once and go to call the priest, 
saying that Roderick was ill and she was uneasy. 
Then she camiC back to the bed, and holding 
Roderick's hand she said, that he must try to 
sleep. Roderick said to her, " Mother, say that you 
forgive me." To which she only replied, " Dear 
child, do I not love you better than all the world ^ 
Do not think of me now, only ask help of God." 
So she sate with his hand in both of her own, and 
presently he fell asleep ; but she saw that he was 
troubled in his dreams, for he groaned and cried 
out often ; and now through the window she heard 
the soft tolling of the bell of the church, and she 
knew that a contest must be fought out that night 
over the child ; but after a sore passage of misery, 
and a bitter questioning as to why one so young 
and innocent should thus be bound with evil bonds, 
she found strength to leave the matter in the 
Father's hands, and to pray with an eager hope- 
fulness. 

But the time passed heavily and still the priest 



THE GRAY CAT 241 

did not arrive ; and the ghostly terror was so sore 
on the child that she could bear it no longer and 
awakened him. And he told her in broken words 
of the terrible things that had oppressed him ; 
sore fightings and struggles, and a voice in his ear 
that it was too late, and that he had yielded himself 
to the evil. And at last there came a quiet foot- 
fall on the stair, and the old priest himself entered 
the room, looking anxious, yet calm, and seeming 
to bring a holy peace with him. 

Then she bade the priest sit down ; and so the 
two sate by the bedside, with the solitary lamp 
burning in the chamber ; and she would have had 
Roderick tell the tale, but he covered his face with 
his hands and could not. So she told the tale 
herself to the priest, saying, " Correct me, Roderick, 
if I am wrong ; " and once or twice the boy cor- 
rected her, and added a few words to make the 
story plain, and then they sate awhile in silence, while 
the terrified looks of the mother and her son dwelt 
on the old priest's strongly lined face ; yet they 
found comfort in the smile with which he met them. 

At length he said, " Yes, dear lady and dear 
Roderick, the case is plain enough — the child has 
jdelded himself to some evil power, but not too 
far, I think ; and now must we meet the foe with 
all our might. I will abide here with the boy ; and, 
dear lady, you were better in your own chamber, 
for we know not what will pass ; if there were need 
I would call you." Then the lady said, " I will do 
as you direct me. Father, but I would fain stay." 
Then he said, " Nay, but there are things on which 

Q 



242 THE GRAY CAT 

a Christian should not look, lest they should daunt 
his faith — ^so go, dear lady, and help us with your 
prayers." Then she said, "I will be below ; and 
if you beat your foot thiice upon the floor, I will 
come. Roderick, I shall be close at hand ; only 
be strong, and all shall be well." Then she went 
softly away. 

Then the priest said to Roderick, " And now, 
dear son, confess your sin and let me shrive you." 
So Roderick made confession, and the priest blessed 
him : but while he blessed liim there came the 
angry crying of a cat from somewhere in the room, 
so that Roderick shuddered in his bed. Then the 
priest drew from his robe a little holy book, and with 
a reverence laid it under Roderick's hand ; and he 
himself took his book of prayers and said, " Sleep 
now, dear son, fear not." So Roderick closed his 
eyes, and being very weary slept. And the old 
priest in a low whisper said the blessed psalms. 
And it came near to midnight ; and the place that 
the priest read was, Thou shall nol he afraid for any 
terror by night, nor for the arrow that flielh by day ; 
for the pestilence that walketh in darkness, nor for the 
sickness that destroyeth in the noonday ; and sud- 
denly there ran as it were a shiver through his 
bones, and he knew that the time was come. He 
looked at Roderick, who slept wearily on his bed, 
and it seemed to himi as though suddenly a small 
and shadovvy thing, like a bird, leapt from the 
boy's mouth and on to the bed ; it was like a wren, 
only white, with dusky spots upon it ; and the 
priest held his breath ; for now he knew that the 



THE GRAY CAT 243 

soul was out of the body, and that unless it could 
return uninjured into the limbs of the child, nothing 
could avail the boy ; and then he said quietly in 
his heart to God that if He so willed He should take 
the boy's life, if only his soul could be saved. 

Then the priest was aware of a strange and horrible 
thing ; there sprang softly on to the bed the form 
of the great gray cat, very lean and angry, which 
stood there, as though ready to spring upon the 
bird, which hopped hither and thither, as though 
careless of what might be. The priest cast a glance 
upon the boy, who lay rigid and pale, his eyes shut, 
and hardly seeming to breathe, as though dead 
and prepared for burial. Then the priest signed 
the cross and said " In Nomine " ; and as the holy 
words fell on the air, the cat looked fiercely at the 
bird, but seemed to shrink into itself ; and then it 
slipped away. 

Then the priest's fear was that the bird might 
stray further outside of his care ; and yet he dared 
not try and wake the boy, for he knew that this 
was death, if the soul was thrust apart from the body, 
and if he broke the unseen chain that bound them ; 
so he waited and prayed. And the bird hopped 
upon the floor ; and then presently the priest saw 
the cat draw near again, and in a stealthy way ; 
and now the priest himself was feeling weary of 
the strain, for he seemed to be wrestling in spirit 
with something that was strong and strongly armed. 
But he signed the cross again and said faintly " In 
Nomine " ; and the cat again withdrew. 

Then a dreadful drov/siness fell upon the priest. 



244 THE GRAY CAT 

and he thought that he must sleep. Something 
heavy, leaden-handed, and powerful seemed to be 
busy in his brain. Meanwhile the bird hopped 
upon the window-sill and stood as if preparing its 
wings for a flight. Then the priest beat with his 
foot upon the floor, for he could no longer battle. 
In a moment the lady glided in, and seemed as 
though scared to find the scene of so fierce an en- 
counter so still and quiet. She would have spoken, 
but the priest signed her to be silent, and pointed 
to the boy and to the bird ; and then she partly 
understood. So they stood in silence, but the 
priest's brain grew more numb ; though he was 
aware of a creeping blackness that seemed to over- 
shadow the bird, in the midst of which glared two 
bright eyes. So with a sudden effort he signed 
the cross, and said " In Nomine " again ; and at 
the same moment the lady held out her hand ; 
and the priest sank down on the floor ; but he saw 
the bird raise its wings for a flight, and just as the 
dark thing rose, and, as it were, struck open- 
mouthed, the bird sailed softly through the air, 
alighted on the lady's hand, and then with a light 
flutter of wings on to the bed and to the boy's face, 
and was seen no more ; at the same moment the bells 
stopped in the church and left a sweet silence. The 
black form shrank and slipped aside, and seemed 
to fall on the ground ; and outside there was a 
shrill and bitter cry which echoed horribly on the 
air ; and the boy opened his eyes, and smiled ; and 
his mother fell on his neck and kissed him. Then 
the priest said, " Give God the glory ! " and blessed 



THE GRAY CAT 245 

them, and was gone so softly that they knew not 
when he went ; for he had other work to do. Then 
mother and son had great joy together. 

But the priest walked swiftly and sternly through 
the wood, and to the church ; and he dipped a 
vessel in the stoup of holy water, turning his eyes 
aside, and wrapped it in a veil of linen. Then he 
took a lantern in his hand, and with a grave and 
fixed look on his face he walked sadly up the valley, 
putting one foot before another, like a man who 
forced himself to go unwilling. There were strange 
sounds on the hillside, the crying of sad birds, 
and the beating of wings, and sometimes a hollow 
groaning seemed to come down the stream. But 
the priest took no heed, but went on heavily till 
he reached the stone cross, where the wind whistled 
dry in the grass. Then he struck off across the 
moorland. Presently he came to a rise in the 
ground ; and here, though it was dark, he 
seemed to see a blacker darkness in the air, where 
the peak lay. 

But beneath the peak he saw a strange sight ; 
for the pool shone with a faint white light, that 
showed the rocks about it. The priest never turned 
his head, but walked thither, with his head bent, 
repeating words to himself, but hardly knowing 
what he said. 

Then he came to the brink ; and there he saw 
a dreadful sight. In the water writhed large and 
luminous worms, that came sometimes up to the 
surface, as though to breathe, and sank again. 
The priest knew well enough that it was a device 



246 THE GRAY CAT 

of Satan's to frighten him ; so he delayed not ; 
but setting the lantern down on the ground, he 
stood. In a moment the lantern was obscured 
as by the rush of bat-like wings. But the priest 
took the veil off the vessel ; and holding it up in 
the air, he let the water fall in the pool, saying 
softly, " Lord, let them be bound ! " 

But when the holy water touched the lake, there 
was a strange sight ; for the bright worms quivered 
and fell to the depth of the pool ; and a shiver 
passed over the surface, and the light went out 
like a flickering lamp. Then there came a foul 
yelling from the stones ; and with a roar like thunder, 
rocks fell crashing from the face of the peak ; and 
then all was still. 

Then the priest sate down and covered his face 
with his hands, for he was sore spent ; but he rose 
at length, and with grievous pain made his slow 
way down the valley, and reached the parsonage 
house at last. 

Roderick lay long between life and death ; and 
youth and a quiet mind prevailed. 

Long years have passed since that day ; all 
those that I have spoken of are dust. But in the 
window of the old church hangs a picture in glass 
which shows Christ standing, with one lying at his 
feet from whom he had cast out a devil; and on a 
scroll are the words, de abyssis • terrae • iterum • 
REDUXiSTi • ME, the which may be written in 
English, Yea, and broughtest me from the deep of the 
earth again. 



THE RED CAMP 

It was a sultry summer evening in the old days, 
when Walter Wyatt came to the house of his fore- 
fathers. It was in a quiet valley of Sussex, with 
the woods standing very steeply on the high hill- 
sides. Among the woods were pleasant stretches 
of pasture, and a little stream ran hidden among 
hazels beside the road ; here and there were pits 
in the woods, where the men of ancient times had 
dug for iron, pits with small sandstone cliffs, and 
full to the brim of saplings and woodland plants. 
Walter rode slov/ly along, his heart full of a happy 
content. Though it was the home of his family 
he had never even seen Restlands — that was the 
peaceful name of the house. Walter's father had 
been a younger son, and for many years the elder 
brother, a morose and selfish man, had lived at 
Restlands, often vowing that none of his kin should 
ever set foot in the place, and all out of a native 
malice and churlishness, which discharged itself 
upon those that were nearest to him. Walter's 
father was long dead, and Walter had lived a very 
quiet homely life with his mother. But one day 
his uncle had died suddenly and silently, sitting 
in his chair ; and it was found that he had left 

no will. So that Restlands, with its orchards a^d 

247 



248 THE RED CAMP 

woods and its pleasant pasture-lands, fell to Walter ; 
and he had ridden down to take possession. He 
was to set the house in order, for it was much 
decayed in his uncle's time ; and in a few weeks 
his mother was to follow him there. 

He turned a corner of the road, and saw in a glance 
a house that he knew must be his ; and a sudden 
pride and tenderness leapt up within his heart, to 
think how fair a place he could call his own. 

An avenue of limes led from the road to the 
house, which was built of ancient stone, the roof 
tiled with the same. The front was low and many- 
windowed. And Walter, for he was a God-fearing 
youth, made a prayer in his heart, half of gratitude 
and half of hope. 

He rode up to the front of the house, and saw 
at once that it was sadly neglected ; the grass grew 
among the paving-stones, and several of the windows 
were broken. He knocked at the door, and an old 
serving-man came out, who made an obeisance. 
Walter sent his horse to the stable ; his baggage 
was already come ; and his first task was to visit 
his new home from room to room. It was a very 
beautiful solidly built house, finely panelled in old 
dry wood, and had an abundance of solid oak 
furniture ; there were dark pictures here and there ; 
and that night Walter sate alone at his meat, which 
was carefully served him by the old serving-man, 
his head full of pleasant plans for his new life ; he 
slept in the great bedroom, and many times woke 
wondering where he was ; once he crept to the 
window, and saw the barns, gardens, and orchards 



THE RED CAMP 249 

lie beneath, and the shadowy woods beyond, all 
bathed in a cold clear moonlight. 

In the morning when he had breakfasted, the 
lawyer who had charge of his business rode in from 
the little town hard by to see him ; and when 
Walter's happiness was a little dashed ; for though 
the estate brought in a fair sum, yet it was crippled 
by a mortgage which lay upon it ; and Walter 
saw that he would have to live sparely for some years 
before he could have his estate unembarrassed ; 
but this troubled him little, for he was used to a 
simple life. The lawyer indeed had advised him 
to sell a little of the land ; but Walter was very 
proud of the old estate, and of the memory that 
he was the tenth Wyatt that had dwelt there, and 
he said that before he did that he would wait awhile 
and see if he could not arrange otherwise. When 
the lawyer was gone there came in the bailiff, and 
Walter went with him all over the estate. The 
garden was greatly overgrown with weeds, and the 
yew hedges were sprawUng all uncut ; they went 
through the byre, where the cattle stood in the 
straw ; they visited the stable and the barn, the 
granary and the dovecote ; and Walter spoke 
pleasantly with the men that served him ; then 
he went to the ploughland and the pastures, the 
orchard and the woodland ; and it pleased Walter 
to walk in the woodpaths, among the copse and 
under great branching oaks, and to feel that it was 
all his own. 

At last they came out on the brow of the hill, 
and saw Restlands lie beneath them, with the 



250 THE RED CAMP 

smoke of a chimney going up into the quiet air, 
and the doves wheeHng about the cote. The whole 
valley was full of westering sunshine, and the country 
sounds came pleasantly up through the still air. 

They stood in a wide open pasture, but in the 
centre of it rose a small, dark, and thickly grown 
square holt of wood, surrounded by a high green 
bank of turf, and Walter asked what that was. The 
old bailiff looked at him a moment without speak- 
ing and then said, " That is the Red Camp, sir." 
Walter said pleasantly, " And whose camp is it ? " 
but it came suddenly into his head that long ago 
his father had told him a curious tale about the 
place, but he could not remember what the tale 
was. The old man answering liis question said, 
*' Ah, sir, who can say ? perhaps it was the old 
Romans who made it, or perhaps older men still ; 
but there was a sore battle hereabouts." And then 
he went on in a slow and serious way to tell him 
an old tale of how a few warriors had held the place 
against an army, and that they had all been put 
to the sword there ; he said that in former days 
strange rusted weapons and bones had been ploughed 
up in the field, and then he added that the Camp 
had ever since been left desolate and that no one 
cared to set foot within it ; yet for all that it was 
said that a great treasure la}^ buried within it, for 
that was what the men were guarding, though 
those that took the place and slew them could never 
find it ; '' and that was all long ago," he said. 

Walter, as the old man spoke, walked softly 
to the wood and peered at it over the mound ; it 



THE RED CAMP 251 

was all grown up within, close and thick, an evil 
tangle of plants and briars. It was dark and even 
cold looking within the wood, though the air lay 
warm all about it. The mound was about breast 
high, and there was a grass-grown trench all round 
out of which the earth had been thrown up. It 
came into Walter's head that the place had seen 
strange things. He thought of it as all rough and 
newly made, with a palisade round the mound, with 
spears and helmets showing over, and a fierce wild 
multitude of warriors surging all round ; the 
Romans, if they had been Romans, within, grave 
and anxious, waiting for help that never came. 
AU this came into his mind with a pleasant sense 
of security, as a man who is at ease looks on a picture 
of old and sad things, and finds it minister to his 
content. Yet the place kept a secret of its own, 
Walter felt sure of that. And the treasure, was 
that there all the time ? buried in some corner of 
the wood, money lying idle that might do good things 
if it could but get forth ? So he mused, tapping 
the bank with his stick. And presently they went 
on together. Walter said as they turned away, 
" I should hke to cut the trees down, and throw 
the place into the pasture," but the old bailiff said, 
" Na}/, it is better left alone." 

The weeks passed very pleasantly at first ; the 
neighbours came to see him, and he found that an 
old name wins friends easily ; he spent much of 
the day abroad, and he liked to go up to the Red 
Camp and see it stand so solitary and dark, with 
the pleasant valley beneath it. His mother soon 



252 THE RED CAMP 

came, and they found that with her small jointure 
they could indeed live at the place, but that they 
would have to live very sparely at first ; there 
must be no horses in the stable, nor coach to drive 
abroad ; there must be no company at Restlands 
for many a year, and Walter saw too that he must 
not think awhile of marriage, but that he must 
give all his savings to feed the estate. 

After awhile, when the first happy sense of pos- 
session had gone off, and then life had settled down 
into common and familiar ways, this began to be 
very irksome to Walter ; and what made him feel 
even more keenly his fortune was that he made 
acquaintance with a squire that lived hard by, 
who had a daughter Marjory, who seemed to 
Walter the fairest and sweetest maiden he had 
ever seen ; and he began to carry her image about 
with him ; and his heart beat very sharply in his 
breast if he set eyes on her unexpectedly ; and she 
too, seemed to have delight in seeing Walter, and 
to understand even the thoughts that lay beneath 
his lightest word. But the squire was a poor man, 
and Walter felt bound to crush the thought of love 
and marriage down in his heart, until he began to 
grow silent and moody ; and his mother saw all 
that was in his heart and pitied him, but knew not 
what to do ; and Walter began even to talk of going 
into the world to seek his fortune ; but it was little 
more than talk, for he already loved Restlands 
very deeply. 

Now one day when Walter had been dining with 
the Vicar of the parish, he met at his table an old 



THE RED CAMP 253 

and fond man, full of curious wisdom, who took 
great delight in all that showed the history of the 
old races that had inhabited the land ; and he told 
Walter a long tale of the digging open of a great 
barrow or mound upon the downs, which it seemed 
had been the grave of a great prince, and in which 
they had found a great treasure of gold, cups and 
plates and pitchers all of gold, with bars of the same, 
and many other curious things. He said that a 
third of such things by rights belonged to the 
King ; but that the King's Grace had been contented 
to take a rich cup or two, and had left the rest in 
the hands of him whose land it was. Then the 
old scholar asked Walter if it were not true that 
he had in his own land an ancient fort or strong- 
hold, and Walter told him of the Red Camp and the 
story, and the old man heard him with great 
attention saying, " Ay, ay," and " Ay, so it would 
be," and at the last he said that the story of the 
treasure was most likely a true one, for he did not 
see how it could have grown up otherwise ; and 
that he did not doubt that it was a great Roman 
treasure, perhaps a tribute, gathered in from the 
people of the land, who would doubtless have been 
enraged to lose so much and would have striven to 
recover it. " Ay, it is there, sure enough," he said. 
Walter offered to go with him to the place ; 
but the old Vicar, seeing Walter's bright eye, and 
knowing something of the difficulties, said that 
the legend was that it would be ill to disturb a thing 
that had cost so many warriors their lives ; and 
that a curse would rest upon one that did disturb it. 



254 THE RED CAMP 

The old scholar laughed and said that the curses 
of the dead, and especially of the heathen dead, 
would break no bones — and he went on to say that 
doubtless there was a whole hen-roost of curses 
hidden away in the mound upon the downs ; but 
that they had hurt not his friend who had opened 
it ; for he Hved very delicately and plentifully off 
the treasure of the old prince, who seemed to bear 
him no grudge for it. " Nay, doubtless," he said, 
"if we but knew the truth, I dare say that the old 
heathen man, pining in some dark room in hell, is 
glad enough that his treasure should be richly 
spent by a good Christian gentleman." 

They walked together to the place ; and the old 
gentleman talked very learnedly and showed him 
where the gates and towers of the fort had been — 
adding to Walter, " And if I were you, Mr. Wyatt, 
I would have the place cleared and trenched, and 
would dig the gold out ; for it is there as sure as I 
am a Christian man and a lover of the old days." 

Then Walter told his mother of all that had been 
said ; and she had heard of the old tales, and shook 
her head ; indeed when Walter spoke to the old 
bailiff of his wish to open the place, the old man 
almost wept ; and then, seeing that he prevailed 
nothing, said suddenly that neither he nor any of 
the men that dwelt in the village would put out a 
hand to help for all the gold of England. So Walter 
rested for awhile ; and still his impatience and liis 
hunger grew. 

Walter did not decide at once ; he turned the 
matter over in his mind for a week. He spoke no 



THE RED CAMP 255 

more to the bailiff, who thought he had changed 
his mind ; but all the week the desire grew ; and 
at last it completely overmastered him. He sent 
for the bailiff and told him he had determined 
to dig out the Camp ; the bailiff looked at him 
without speaking. Then Walter said laughing that 
he meant to deal very fairly ; that no one should 
bear a hand in the work who did not do so willingly ; 
but that he should add a little to the wages of every 
man who worked for him at the Camp while the 
work was going on. The bailiff shrugged his 
shoulders and made no reply. Walter went and 
spoke to each of his men and told them his offer. 
** I know," he said, " that there is a story about 
the place, and that you do not wish to touch it ; 
but I will offer a larger wage to every man who 
works there for me ; and I will force no man to 
do it ; but done it shall be ; and if my own men 
will not do it, then I will get strangers to help me." 
The end of it was that three of his men offered to 
do the work, and the next day a start was made. 

The copse and undergrowth was first cleared, 
and then the big trees were felled and dragged off 
the place ; then the roots were stubbed up. It 
was a difficult task, and longer than Walter had 
thought ; and he could not disguise from liimself 
that a strange kind of ill-luck hung about the whole 
affair. One of his men disabled himself by a cut 
from an axe ; another fell ill ; the third, after these 
two mishaps, came and begged off. Walter replaced 
them with other workers ; and the work proceeded 
slowly, in spite of Walter's great impatience and 



256 THE RED CAMP 

haste. He himself was there early and late ; the 
men had it in their minds that they were searching 
for treasure and were well-nigh as excited as him- 
self ; and Walter was for ever afraid that in his 
absence some rich and valuable thing might be 
turned up, and perhaps concealed or conveyed 
away secretly by the finder. But the weeks passed 
and nothing was found ; and it was now a bare 
and ugly place with miry pools of dirt, great holes 
where the trees had been ; there were cart tracks 
all over the field in which it lay, the great trunks 
lay outside the mound, and the undergrowth was 
piled in stacks. The mound and ditch had all 
been unturfed ; and the mound was daily dug 
down to the level, every spadeful being shaken 
loose ; and now they came upon some few traces 
of human use. In the mound was found a short 
and dinted sword of bronze, of antique shape. A 
mass of rusted metal was found in a corner, that 
looked as if it had been armour. In another corner 
were found some large upright and calcined stones, 
with abundance of wood-ashes below, that seemed 
to have been a rude fireplace. And in one part, 
in a place where there seemed to have been a pit, 
was a quantity of rotting stuff, that seemed like 
the remains of bones. Walter himself grew worn 
and weary, partly with the toil and still more with 
the deferred hope. And the men too became sullen 
and ill-affected. It surprised Walter too that more 
than one of his neighbours spoke with disfavour 
of what he was doing, as of a thing that was foolish 
or even wrong. But still he worked on savagely. 



THE RED CAMP 257 

slept little, and cared not what he ate or 
drank. 

At last the work was nearly over ; the place had 
been all trenched across, and they had come in 
most places to the hard sandstone, which lay very 
near the surface. In the afternoon had fallen a 
heavy drenching shower, so that the men had gone 
home early, wet and dispirited ; and Walter stood, 
all splashed and stained with mud, sick at heart 
and heavy, on the edge of the place, and looked 
very gloomily at the trenches, which lay like an 
ugly scar on the green hilltop. The sky was full 
of ragged inky clouds, with fierce lights on the 
horizon. 

As he paced about and looked at the trenches, 
he saw in one place that it seemed as if the earth 
was of a different colour at the side of the trench ; 
he stepped inside to look at this, and saw that 
the digging had laid bare the side of a place like a 
pit, that seemed to have been dug down through 
the ground ; he bent to examine it, and then saw 
at the bottom of the trench, washed clear by the 
rain, something that looked like a stick or a root, 
that projected a little into the trench ; he put his 
hand down to it, and found it cold and hard and 
heavy, and in a moment saw that it was a rod 
of metal that ran into the bank. He took up a 
spade, and threw the earth away in haste ; and 
presently uncovered the rod. It was a bar, he saw, 
and very heavy ; but examining it closely he saw 
that there was a stamp of some sort upon it ; and 
then in a moment looking upon a place where the 

R 



258 THE RED CAMP 

spade had scratched it, he saw that it was a bright 
yellow metal. It came over him all at once, with 
a shock that made him faint, that he had stumbled 
upon some part of the treasure ; he put the bar 
aside, and then, first looking all round to see that none 
observed him, he dug into the bank. In a moment 
his spade struck something hard ; and he presently 
uncovered a row of bars that lay close together. He 
dragged them up one by one, and underneath he 
found another row, laid crosswise ; and another 
row, and another, till he had uncovered seven rows, 
making fifty bars in all. Beneath the lowest row 
his spade slipped on something round and smooth ; 
he uncovered the earth, and presenth/ drew out 
a brown and sodden skull, which thus lay beneath the 
treasure. Below that was a mass of softer earth, 
but out of it came the two thigh-bones of a man. 

The sky was now beginning to grow dark ; but 
he dug out the whole of the pit, working into the 
bank ; and he saw that a round hole had been 
dug straight down from the top, to the sandstone. 
The bones lay upon the sandstone ; but he found 
other bones at the sides of where the gold had 
lain ; so that it seemed to him as though the gold 
must have been placed among dead bodies, and have 
rested among corruption. This was a dim thought 
that lurked in an ugly w^ay in his mind. But he 
had now dug out the whole pit, and found nothing 
else, except a few large blurred copper coins which 
lay among the bodies. He stood awhile looking 
at the treasure ; but together with the exultation 
at his discovery there mingled a dark and gloomy 



THE RED CAMP 259 

oppression of spirit, which he could not explain, which 
clouded his mind. But presently he came to him- 
self again, and gathering the bones together, he 
threw them down to the bottom of the pit, as he 
was minded to conceal his digging from the men. 
While he did so, it seemed to him that, as he was 
bending to the pit, something came suddenly be- 
hind him and stood at his back, close to him, as 
though looking over his shoulder. For a moment 
the horror was so great that he felt the hair of his 
head prickle and his heart thump within his breast ; 
but he overcame it and turned, and saw nothing 
but the trenches, and above them the ragged sky ; 
yet he had the thought that something had slipped 
away. But he set himself doggedly to finish his 
task ; he threw^ earth into the holes, working in a 
kind of fury ; and twice as he did so, the same feel- 
ing came again that there was some one at his back ; 
and twice turning he savv^ nothing ; but the third 
time, from the West came a sharp thunder-peal ; 
and he had hardly finished his work when the rain 
fell in a sheet, and splashed in the trenches. 

Then he turned to the treasure which lay beside 
him. He found that he could not carry more than 
a few of the bars at a time ; and he dared not leave 
the rest uncovered. So he covered them with 
earth and went stealthily down to the house ; 
and there he got, with much precaution, a barrow 
from the garden. But the fear of discovery came 
upon him ; and he determined to go into the 
house and sup as usual, and late at night convey 
the treasure to the house. For the time, his trove 



26o THE RED CAMP 

gave him no joy ; he could not have beheved it 
would have so weighed on him — he felt more like 
one who had some guilty secret to conceal, than a 
man to whom had befallen a great joy. 

He v/ent to the house, changed his wet clothes, 
and came to supper with his mother. To her ac- 
customed questions as to what they had found, 
he took out the coins and showed them her, saying 
nothing of the gold, but with a jesting word that 
these would hardly repay him for his trouble. 
He could scarcely speak at supper for thinking of 
what he had found ; and every now and then there 
came upon him a dreadful fear that he had been 
observed digging, and that even now some thief 
had stolen back there and was uncovering his hoard. 
His mother looked at him often, and at last said 
that he looked very weary ; to which he replied 
with some sharpness, so that she said no more. 

Then all at once, near the end of the meal, he 
had the same dreadful fear that he had felt by the 
pit. It seemed to him as though some one came near 
him and stood close behind him, bending over his 
shoulder ; and a kind of icy coldness fell on him. 
He started and looked quickly round. His mother 
looked anxiously at him, and said, "What is it, dear 
Walter ? " He made some excuse ; but presently 
feeling that he must be alone, he excused himself and 
went to his room, where he sate, making pretence 
to read, till the house should be silent. 

Then when all were abed, at an hour after mid- 
night, he forced himself to rise and put on his rough 
clothes, though a terror lay very sore upon him, 



THE RED CAMP 261 

and go out to the garden, creeping like a thief. 
He had with him a lantern ; and he carried the 
barrow on his shoulders for fear that the creaking 
of the wheel should awake some one ; and then 
stumbling and sweating, and in a great weariness, 
he went by woodpaths to the hilltop. He came 
to the place, and having lit his lantern he uncovered 
the bars, and laid them on the barrow ; they were 
as he had left them. When he had loaded them, 
the same fear struck him suddenly cold again, of 
something near him ; and he thought for a moment 
he would have swooned ; but sitting down on the 
barrow in the cool air he presently came to himself. 
Then he essayed to wheel the barrow in the dark. 
But he stumbled often, and once upset the barrow 
and spilled his load. Thus, though fearing dis- 
covery, he was forced to light the lantern and set 
it upon the barrow, and so at last he came to the 
house ; where he disposed the bars at the bottom 
of a chest of which he had the key, covering them 
with papers, and then went to bed in a kind of 
fever, his teeth chattering, till he fell into a wretched 
sleep which lasted till dawn. 

In his sleep he dreamed a fearful dream ; he 
seemed to be sitting on the ground by the Camp, 
holding the gold in his arms ; the Camp in his 
dream was as it was before he had cleared it, all 
grown up with trees. Suddenly out from among 
the trees there came a man in rusty tarnished 
armour, with a pale wild face and a little beard, 
which seemed all clotted with moisture ; he held 
in his hand a pike or spear, and he came swiftly 



262 THE RED CAMP 

and furiously upon Walter as though he would 
smite him. But it seemed as though his purpose 
changed ; for standing aside he watched Walter 
with evil and piercing eyes, so that it seemed to 
Walter that he would sooner have been smitten. 
And then he woke, but in anguish, for the man 
still seemxed to stand beside him ; until he made a 
light and saw no one. 

He arose feeling broken and ill ; but he met his 
mother with a smile, and told her that he had 
determined to do what would please her, and work 
no more at the Camp. And he told the men that 
he would dig no more, but that they were to level 
the place and so leave it. And so they did, mur- 
muring sore. 

The next week was a very miserable one for 
Walter ; he could not have believed that a man's 
heart should be so heavy. It seemed to him that 
he lay, like the poor bones that he had found 
beneath the treasure, crushed and broken and 
stifled under the weight of it. He was tempted to 
do wild things with the gold ; to bury it again in 
the Camp, to drop it into the mud of the pool that 
lay near the house. In fevered dreams he seemed 
to row himself in a boat upon a dark sea, and to 
throw the bars one by one into the water ; the 
reason of this was not only his fear for the treasure 
itself, but the dreadful sense that he had of being 
followed by some one, who dogged his footsteps 
wherever he went. If ever he sate alone, the thing 
would draw near him and bend above him ; he 
often felt that if he could but look round swiftly 



THE RED CAMP 263 

enough he would catch a ghmpse of the thing, and 
that nothing that he could see would be so fearful 
as that which was unseen ; and so it came to pass 
that, as he sate with his mother, though he bore 
the presence long that he might not startle her, 
yet after a time of patient agony he could bear it 
no more, but looked swiftly behind him ; he grew 
pale and ill, and even the men of the place noticed 
how often he turned round as he walked ; till at 
last he Vv^ould not even walk abroad, except early 
and late when there would be few to see him.. 

He had sent away his labourers ; but once or 
twice he noticed, as he went by the Camp, that 
some one had been digging and grubbing in the 
mire. Sometimes for an hour or two his terrors 
would leave him, till he thought that he was wholly 
cured ; but it was like a cat with a mouse, for he 
suffered the worse for his respite, till at last he fell 
so low that he used to think of stories of men that 
had destroyed themselves, and though he knew it 
to be a terrible sin to dally with such thoughts, he 
could not wholly put them from him, but used to 
plan in his mind how he could do the deed best, 
that it might appear to be an accident. Some- 
times he bore his trouble heavily, but at others he 
would rage to think that he had been so happy so 
short a while ago ; and even the love that he bore 
to Marjory was darkened and destroyed by the evil 
thing, and he met her timid and friendly glances 
sullenly ; his mother was nearly as miserable as 
himself, for she knew that something was very 
grievously amiss, but could not divine what it was. 



264 THE RED CAMP 

Indeed, she could do nothing but wish it were 
otherwise, and pray for her son, for she knew not 
where the trouble lay, but thought that he was 
ill or even bewitched. 

At last, after a day of dreadful gloom, Walter 
made up his mind that he would ride to London 
and see to the disposing of the treasure. He had 
a thought often in his mind that if he replaced it 
in the Camp, he would cease to be troubled ; but 
he could not bring himself to that ; he seemed 
to himself like a man who had won a hard 
victory, and was asked to surrender what he had 
won. 

His intention was to go to an old and wise friend 
of his father's, who was a Canon of a Collegiate 
Church in London, and was much about the court. 
So he hid the treasure in a strong cellar and padlocked 
the door ; but he took one bar with him to show to 
his friend. 

It was a doleful journey ; his horse seemed as 
dispirited as himself ; and his terrors came often 
upon him, till he was fearful that he might be 
thought mad ; and indeed what with the load at 
his heart and the short and troubled nights he 
spent, he believed himself that he was not very 
far from it. 

It was with a feeling of relief and safety, like a 
ship coming into port, that he stayed his horse 
at the door of the college, which stood in a quiet 
street of the city. He carried a vahse of clothes 
in which the bar was secured. He had a very 
friendly greeting from the old Canon, who received 



THE RED CAMP 265 

him in a little studious parlour full of books. The 
court was full of pleasant sunshine, and the city 
outside seemed to make a pleasant and wholesome 
stir in the air. 

But the Canon was very much amaz;ed at Walter's 
looks ; he was used to read the hearts of men in 
their faces like a wise priest, and he saw in Walter's 
face a certain desperate look such as he had seen, 
he said to himself, in the faces of those who had a 
deadly sin to confess. But it was not his way 
to make inquisition, and so he talked courteously 
and easily, and when he found that Walter was 
inclined to be silent, he filled the silence himself 
with little talk of the news of the town. 

After the meal, which the}^ took in the Canon's 
room — for Walter said that he would prefer that 
to dining in the Hall, when the Canon gave him 
the choice — Walter said that he had a strange 
story to tell him. The Canon felt no surprise, and 
being used to strange stories, addressed himself 
to listen carefully ; for he thought that in the most 
difficult and sad tales of sin the words of the sufferer 
most often supplied the advice and the way out, 
if one but listened warily, 

He did not interrupt Walter except to ask him 
a few questions to make the story clear, but his 
face grew very grave ; and at the end he sate some 
time in silence. Then he said very gently that 
it was a heavy^ judgment, but that he must ask 
Walter one question. " I do not ask j^ou to tell 
me," he said very courteously, " what it may be ; 
but is there no other thing in which you have dis- 



266 THE RED CAMP 

pleased God ? For these grievous thoughts and 
fears are sometimes sent as a punishment for sin, 
and to turn men back to the light." 

Then Walter said that he knew of no such sin 
by which he could have vexed God so exceedingly^ 
*' Careless," he said, " I am and have been ; and, 
father, I would tell you anything that was in my 
heart ; I would have no secrets from you — ^but 
though I am a sinner, and do not serve God as 
well as I would, yet I desire to serve Him, and 
have no sin that is set like a wall between Him 
and me." He said this so honestly and bravely, 
looking so full at the priest, that he did not doubt 
him, and said, " Then, my son, we must look else- 
where for the cause ; and though I speak in haste, 
and without weighing my words, it seems to me 
that, to speak in parables, you are like a man who 
has come by chance to a den and carried off for 
his pleasure the cubs o^ some forest beast, who 
returns and finds them gone, and tracks the robber 
out. The souls of these poor warriors are in some 
mansion of God, we know not where ; if they did 
faithfulty in life they are beaten, as the Scripture 
says, with few stripes ; but they may not enjoy 
His blessed rest, nor the sweet sleep of the faithful 
souls who lie beneath the altar and wait for His 
coming. And now though they cannot slay you, 
they can do you grievous hurt. The Holy Church 
hath power indeed over the spirits of evil, the 
devils that enter into men. But I have not heard 
that she hath power over the spirits of the dead, 
and least of all over those that lived and died 



THE RED CAMP 267 

outside the fold. It seems to me, though I but 
grope in darkness, that these poor spirits grudge 
the treasure that they fought and died for to the 
hands of a man who hath not fought for it. We 
may think that it is a poor and childish thing to 
grudge that which one cannot use ; but no dis- 
course will make a child think so ; and I reckon 
that these poor souls are as children yet. And it 
seems to m.e, speaking foolishly, as though they 
would not be appeased until you either restored 
it to them, or used it for their undoubted benefit ; 
but of one thing I am certain, that it must not be 
used to enrich j^ourself. But I must ponder over 
the story, for it is a strange one, and not such as 
has ever yet come before me." 

Then Walter found fresh courage at these wary 
and wise words, and told him of his impoverished 
estate and the love he had to Marjory ; and the 
priest smiled, and said that love was the best thing 
to win in the world. And then he said that as it 
was now late, they must sleep ; and that the night 
often brought counsel ; and so he took Walter to 
his chamber, a little precise place with a window 
on the court ; and there he left him ; but he first 
knelt down and prayed, and then laid his hand on 
Walter's head, and blessed him, and commended 
him to the merciful keeping of God ; and Walter 
slept sweetly, and was scared that night by no 
dismal dreams ; and in the morning the priest 
took him to the church, and Walter knelt in a 
little chapel while the old man said his mass, com- 
mending therein the burden of Walter's suffering 



268 THE RED CAMP 

into the merciful hands of God ; so that Walter's 
heart was greatly lightened. 

Then after the mass the priest asked Walter 
of his health, and whether he had suffered any 
visitation of evil that night ; he said "no," and 
the priest then said that he had pondered long over 
the story, which was strange and very dark. But 
he had little doubt now as to what Walter should 
do. He did not think that the treasure should 
be replaced now that it was got up, because it was 
onl}/ flying before the evil and not meeting it, but 
leaving the sad inheritance for some other man. 
The poor spirit must be laid to rest, and the treasure 
used for God's glory. " And therefore," he said, 
** I think that a church must be built, and dedi- 
cated to All Souls ; and thus your net will be wide 
enough to catch the sad spirit. And you must 
buy a little estate for the support of the chaplain 
thereof, and so shall all be content." 

" All but one," said Walter sadly, **Jor there 
goes vay dream of setting up my own house that 
tumbles down." 

*' My son," said the old priest very gravely, 
" you must not murmur ; it will be enough for 3^ou 
if God take away the sore chastening of your spirit ; 
and for the rest, He will provide." 

" But there is more behind," he said after a 
pause. " If you, with an impoverished estate, 
build a church and endow a priest, there \vill be 
questions asked ; it will needs be known that you 
have found a treasure, and it will come, perhaps, 
to the ears of the King's Grace, and inquisition will 



THE RED CAMP 269 

be made ; so I shall go this morning to a Lord of 
the Court, an ancient friend of mine, a discreet 
man ; and I will lay the story before him, if you 
give me leave ; and he will advise." 

Walter saw that the priest's advice was good ; 
and so he gave him leave ; and the priest departed 
to the Court ; but while he was away, as Walter 
sate sadly over a book, his terrors came upon him 
with fresh force ; the thing drew near him and 
stood at his shoulder, and he could not dislodge 
it ; it seemed to Walter that it was more malign 
than ever, and was set upon driving him to some 
desperate deed ; so he rose and paced in the court ; 
but it seemed to move behind him, till he thought 
he would have gone distraught ; but finding the 
church doors open, he went inside and, in a corner, 
knelt and prayed, and got some kind of peace ; 
yet he felt all the while as though the presence 
waited for him at the door, but could not hurt 
him in the holy shrine ; and there Walter made a 
vow and vowed his life into the hands of God ; 
for he had found the world a harder place than he 
had thought, and it seemed to him as though he 
walked among unseen foes. Presently he saw the 
old priest come into the church, peering about ; 
so Walter rose and came to him ; the priest had a 
contented air, but seemed big with news, and he 
told Walter that he miust go with him at once to 
the Court. For he had seen the Lord Poynings, 
that was his friend, who had taken him at once 
to the king ; and the king had heard the story very 
curiously, and would see Walter himself that day. 



270 THE RED CAMP 

So Walter fetched the bar of gold and they went 
at once together ; and Walter was full of awe and 
fear, and asked the priest how he should bear him- 
self ; to which the priest said smiling, *' As a man, 
in the presence of a man." And as they went 
Walter told him that he had been visited by the 
terror again, but had found peace in the church ; and 
the priest said, " Ay, there is peace to be had there." 

They came down to the palace, and were at once 
admitted ; the priest and he were led into a little 
room, full of books, where a man was writing, a 
venerable man in a furred gown, with a comety 
face ; this was the Lord Po^'nings, who greeted 
Walter very gently but with a secret attention ; 
Walter shewed him the bar of gold, and he looked 
at it long, and presently there came a page who 
said that the king was at leisure, and would see 
Mr. Wyatt. 

Waiter had hoped that the priest, or at least the 
Lord Poynings, would accompany him ; but the 
message was for himself alone ; so he was led along 
a liigh corridor with tall stands of arms. The 
king had been a great warrior in his manhood, and 
had won many trophies. They carne to a great 
doorway, where the page knocked ; a voice cried 
within, and the page told Walter he must enter alone. 

Walter would fain have asked the page how he 
should make his obeisance ; but there was no time 
now, for the page opened the door, and Walter 
went in. 

He found himself in a small room, hung with 
green arras. The king was sitting in a great chair. 



THE RED CAMP 271 

by a table spread out with parchments. Walter 
first bowed low and then knelt down ; the king 
motioned him to rise, and then said in a quiet and 
serene voice, " So, sir, you are the gentleman that 
has found a treasure and would fain be rid of it 
again." At these gentle words Walter felt his 
terrors leave him ; the king looked at him with a 
serious attention ; he was a man just passing into 
age ; his head was nearly hairless, and he had a 
thin face with a long nose, and small Hps dvdiwn 
together. On his head was a loose velvet cap, and 
he wore his gown furred ; round his neck was a 
jewel, and he had great rings on his forefingers and 
thumbs. 

The king, hardly pausing for an answer, said, 
" You look ill, Master Wyatt, and little wonder ; 
sit here in a chair and tell me the tale in a few 
words." 

Walter told his story as shortly as he could with 
the king's kind eye upon him ; the king once or 
twice interrupted him ; he took the bar from 
Walter's hands, and looked upon it, weighing it in 
his fingers, and saying, " Ay, it is a mighty trea- 
sure." Once or twice he made him repeat a few 
sentences, and heard the story of the thing that 
stood near him with a visible awe. 

At last he said with a smile, " You have told 
your story well, sir, and plainly ; are you a sol- 
dier ? " When Walter said " no," he said, " It is 
a noble trade, nevertheless." Then he said, " Well, 
sir, the treasure is yours, to use as I understand 
you will use it for the glory of God and for the peace 



272 THE RED CAMP 

of the poor spirit, which I doubt not is that of a 
great knight. But I have no desire to be visited 
of him," and here he crossed himself. " So let it 
be thus bestowed — and I will cause a quittance 
to be made out for you from the Crown, which will 
take no part in the trove. How many bars did 
you say ? " And when Walter said " fifty," the 
king said, "It is great wealth ; and I wish for 
your sake, sir, that it were not so sad an inheritance." 
Then he added, " Well, sir, that is the matter ; 
but I would hear the end of this, for I never knew 
the like ; when your church is built and all things 
are in order, and let it be done speedily, you shall 
come and visit me again." And then the king said, 
with a kindly smile, ** And as for the maiden of 
whom I have heard, be not discouraged ; for yours 
is an ancient house, and it must not be extinguished 
— and so farewell ; and remember that your king 
wishes you happiness ; " and he made a sign that 
Walter should withdraw. So Walter knelt again 
and kissed the king's ring, and left the chamber. 

When Walter came out he seemed to tread on 
air ; the king's gracious kindness moved liim very 
greatly, and loyalty filled his heart to the brim. He 
found the priest and the Lord Poynings waiting 
for him ; and presently the two left the palace 
together, and Walter told the priest what the king 
had said. 

The next day he rode back into Sussex ; but 
he was very sorely beset as he rode, and reached 
home in great misery. But he wasted no time, but 
rather went to his new task with great eagerness ; 



THE RED CAMP 273 

the foundations of the church were laid, and soon 
the walls began to rise. Meanwhile Walter had the 
gold conveyed to the king's Mint ; and a message 
came to him that it would make near upon twenty 
thousand pounds of gold, a fortune for an earl. 
So the church was built very massive and great, 
and a rich estate was bought which would support 
a college of priests. But Walter's heart was very 
heavy ; for his terrors still came over him from 
day to day ; and he was no nearer settling his 
own affairs. 

Then there began to come to him a sore tempta- 
tion ; he could build his church, and endow his 
college with lands, and yet he could save some- 
thing of the treasure to set him free from his own 
poverty ; and day by day this wrought more and 
more in Ms mind. 

At last one day when he was wandering through 
the wood, he found himself face to face in the path 
with Marjory herself ; and there was so tender a 
look in her face that he could no longer resist, so 
he turned and walked with her, and told her all 
that was in his heart. " It was all for the love of 
you," he said, " that I have thus been punished, 
and now I am no nearer the end ; " and then, for 
he saw that she wept, and that she loved him 
well, he opened to her his heart, and said that he 
would keep back part of the treasure, and would 
save his house, and that they would be wed ; and 
so he kissed her on the lips. 

But Marjory was a true-hearted and wise maiden, 
and loved Walter better than he knew ; and she 

s 



274 THE RED CAMP 

said to him, all trembling for pity, " Dear Walter, 
it cannot be ; this must be given faithfully, be- 
cause you are the king's servant, and because you 
must give the spirit back his own, and because 
you are he that I love the best ; and we will wait ; 
for God tells me that it must be so ; and He is 
truer even than love." 

So Walter was ashamed ; and he threw un- 
worthy thoughts away ; and with the last of the 
money he caused a fair screen to be made, and 
windows of rich glass ; and the money was thus 
laid out. 

Now while the church was in building — and they 
made all the haste they could — ^Walter had days 
when he was very grievously troubled ; but it 
seemicd to him a different sort of trouble. In the 
first place he looked forward confidently to the 
day when the dark presence would be withdrawn! ; 
and a man who can look forward to a certain 
ending to his pain can stay himself on that ; but, 
besides that, it seemed to him that he was not 
now beset by a foe, but guarded as it were by a 
sentinel. There were days when the horror was 
very great, and when the thing was always near 
him whether he sate or walked, whether he was 
alone or in company ; and on those days he with- 
drew himself from men, and there was a dark 
shadow on his brow. So that there grew up a kind 
of mystery about him ; but, besides that, he learnt 
things in those bitter hours that are not taught in 
any school. He learnt to suffer with all the great 
company of those who bear heav>' and unseen 



THE RED CAMP 275 

burdens, who move in the grip of fears and stumble 
under the load of dark necessities. He grew more 
tender and more strong. He found in his hand 
the key to many hearts. Before this he had cared 
little about the thoughts of other men ; but now 
he found himself for ever wondering what the inner 
thoughts of the hearts of others were, and ready 
if need were to help to lift their load ; he had lived 
before in careless fellowship with light-hearted 
persons, but now he was rather drawm to the old 
and wise and sad ; and there fell on him some touch 
of the holy priesthood that falls on all whose sad- 
ness is a fruitful sadness, and who instead of yield- 
ing to bitter repining would try to make others 
happier. If he heard of a sorrow or a distress, his 
thought was no longer how to put it out of his 
mind as soon as he might, but of how he might 
lighten it. So his heart grew wider day by da}^ 

And at last the day cam^e when the church was 
done ; it stood, a fair white shrine with a seemly 
tower, on the liill-top, and a Uttle way from it 
was the college for the priests. The Bishop came 
to consecrate it, and the old Canon came from 
London, and there was a little gathering of neigh- 
bours to see the holy work accomplished. 

The Bishop blessed the church very tenderly ; 
he was an old infirm man, but he bore his weakness 
lightly and serenely. He made Walter the night 
before tell him the story of the treasure, and found 
much to wonder at in it. 

There was no part of the church or its furniture 
that he did not solemnly- bless ; and Walter from 



276 THE RED CAMP 

his place felt a grave joy to see all so fair and 
seemly. The priests moved from end to end with 
the Bishop, in their stiff embroidered robes, and 
there was a holy smell of incense which strove 
with the sharp scent of the newly-chiselled wood. 
The Bishop made them a little sermon and spoke 
much of the gathering into the fold of spirits that 
had done their work bravel}^ even if the}^ had not 
known the Lord Christ on earth. 

After all was over, and the guests were departed, 
the old Canon said that he must return on the 
morrow to London, and that he had a message for 
Walter from the king, — who had not failed to ask 
him how the work w^ent on, — that Walter was to 
return with him and tell the king of the fulfilment 
of the design. 

That night W^alter had a strange dream ; he 
seemed to stand in a dark place all vaulted over, 
like a cave that stretched far into the earth ; he 
himself stood in the shadow of a rock, and he was 
aware of some one passing by him. He looked at 
him, and saw that he was the warrior that he had 
seen before in his dream, a small pale man, with 
a short beard, with rusty armour much dinted ; 
he held a spear in his hand, and walked restlessly 
like a man little content. But while Walter watched 
him, there seemed to be another person drawing 
near in the opposite direction. This was a tall man, 
all in white, who brought with him as he came a 
strange freshness in the dark place, as of air and 
light, and the scent of flowers ; this one came along 
in a different fashion, with an assured and yet 



THE RED CAMP 277 

tender air, as though he was making search for some 
one to whom his coming would be welcome ; so 
the two met and words passed between them ; 
the warrior stood with his hands clasped upon his 
spear seeming to drink in what was said — he could 
not hear the words at first, for they were spoken 
softly, but the last words he heard w^ere, " And 
you too are of the number." Then the warrior 
kneeled down and laid his spear aside, and the other 
seemed to stoop and bless him, and then went on 
his way ; and the warrior knelt and watched him 
going with a look in his face as though he had heard 
wonderful and beautiful news, and could hardly 
yet believe it ; and so holy was the look that Walter 
felt as though he intruded upon some deep mystery, 
and moved further into the shadow of the rock ; 
but the warrior rose and came to him where he 
stood, and looked at him with a half-doubting 
look, as though he asked pardon, stretching out 
his hands ; and Walter smiled at him, and the 
other smiled ; and at the moment Walter woke 
in the dawn with a strange joy in his heart, and 
rising in haste, drew the window curtain aside, and 
saw the fresh dawn beginning to come in over the 
woods, and he knew that the burden was lifted 
from him and that he was free. 

In the morning as the old Canon and Walter rode 
to London, W^alter told him the dream ; and w^hen 
he had done, he saw that the old priest was smiling 
at him with his eyes full of tears, and that he could 
not speak ; so they rode together in that sweet 
silence which is worth more than many words. 



278 THE RED CMIP 

The next day Walter came to see the king : he 
carried with him a paper to show the king how all 
had been expended ; but he went with no fear, 
but as though to see a true friend. 

The king received him very gladly, and bade 
Walter tell him all that had been done ; so Walter 
told him, and then speaking very softly told the 
king the dream ; the king mused over the story, 
and then said, "So he has his heart's desire." 

Then there was a silence ; and then the king, as 
though breaking out of a pleasant thought, drew 
from the table a parchment, and said to Walter 
that he had done well and wisely, and therefore for 
the trust that he had in him he made him his Sheriff 
for the County of Sussex, to which v/as added a 
large revenue ; and there was more to come, for 
the king bade Walter unhook a sword from the wall, 
his own sword that he had borne in battle ; and 
therewith he dubbed him knight, and said to him, 
" Rise up, Sir Walter Wyatt." Then before he 
dismissed him, he said to him that he would see 
him every year at the Court ; and then with a 
smile he added, " And when you next come, I 
charge you to bring with you my Lady Wyatt." 

And Walter promised this, and kept his word. 



THE LIGHT OF THE BODY 

It was high noon in the httle town of Parbridge ; 
the streets were bright and silent, and the walls 
of the houses were hot to the touch. The limes in 
the narrow avenue leading to the west door of the 
great church of St. Mary stood breathless and still. 
The ancient church itself looked as if it pondered 
gravely on what had been and what was to be ; 
and the tall windows of the belfry, with their 
wooden louvres, seemed to be solemn half-shut 
eyes. At the south side of the church, connected 
with it by a wooden cloister, stood a tall house of 
grey stone. In a room looking out upon the grave- 
yard sate two men. The room had an austere air ; 
its plain whitened walls bore a single picture, so 
old and dark that it was difficult to see what was 
represented in it. On some shelves stood a few 
volumes ; near the window was a tall black crucifix 
of plain wood, the figure white. There was an oak 
table with writing materials. The floor was paved 
with squares of wood. 

The two men sate close together. One was an 
old and weather-worn man in a secular dress of 
dark material ; the other a young priest in a cas- 
sock, whose pale face, large eyes and wasted hands 
betokened illness, or the strain of some overmaster- 
ing thought. It seemed as though they had been 

279 



28o THE LIGHT OF THE BODY 

holding a grave conversation of strange or sad 
import, and had fallen into a momentary silence. 

The priest was the first to speak. " Well, be- 
loved physician," he said, in a slow and languid 
voice, though with a half-smile, " I have told you 
my trouble ; and I would have your most frank 
opinion." 

" I hardly know what to say," said the Doctor. 
" I have prescribed for many years and do not 
know that I ever heard the like ; I must tell you 
plainly that such things are not written in our 
medical books." 

The priest said nothing, but looked sadly out of 
the window ; presently the Doctor said, " Let me 
hear the tale from the first beginning, dear Her- 
bert ; — it is well to have the whole complete. I 
would consult with a learned friend of mine about 
this dark matter, a physician who is more skilled 
than I am in maladies of the mind — for I think 
that more ails the mind than the body." 

" Well," said the priest a little wearily, " I will 
tell it you. 

" Almost a year ago, on one of the hottest days 
of the early summer, I went abroad as usual, about 
noon, to visit Mistress Dennis who was ill. I do 
not think I felt myself to be unwell, and was full 
to the brim of little joyous businesses ; I stood for 
a time at the porch to speak with Master Dennis 
himself, who came in just as I left the house, and 
I stood uncovered at the door ; suddenly the sun 
stabbed and struck me, as with a scythe, and I 
saw a whirling blackness before my eyes and stag- 
gered. Master Dennis was alarmed, and would 



THE LIGHT OF THE BODY 281 

have had me go within ; but I v/ould not, for I 
had other work to do ; so he led me home ; that 
afternoon I sate over my book ; but I could neither 
read nor think ; I was in pain, I remember, and 
felt that some strange thing had happened to me ; 
I recall, too, rising from my chair, and I am told 
I fainted and fell. 

" Then I remember nothing more but fierce and 
wild dreams of pain. Sometimes I heard my own 
voice crying out ; at last the pain died away, and 
left me very weak and sad ; but I was still pent 
up, it seemed to me, in some dark dungeon of the 
mind, and the view of the room I lay in and the 
sight of those who visited me only came to me in 
short glimpses. I am told I babbled strangely ; 
then one morning I came out suddenly, like a man 
rising from a dive in a pool, and knew that I was 
myself again ; that day was a day of quiet joy ; 
I was weak and silent, but it seemed good to be 
alive. It was not till the next day that I noticed 
the thing that I have tried to tell you, that haunts 
me yet — and I can hardly put it into words. 

" It seemed to me that I noticed round about 
those who came to me a thin veil, as it were of 
vapour, but it was not dense like smoke or mist ; 
I could see them as well through it as before ; it 
w^as more like a light that played about them, and 
it was brightest over the heart and above the 
brow ; at first I thought it was some effect of my 
weak state, but as I grew stronger I saw it stiU 
more clearly. 

" And then comes the strangest part of all ; the 
light changed according to the thoughts that were 



282 THE LIGHT OF THE BODY 

passing in the mind of the person on whom my 
eyes were set — the thought that it was so came 
suddenly into my mind and bewildered me ; but 
in a little I was sure of it. I need not give long 
instances — but I saw, or thought I saw, that when 
the mind of the man or woman was pure and pitiful, 
the light was pure and clear, but that when the 
thoughts were selfish, or covetous, or angry, or 
unclean, there came a darkness into the light, as 
w^hen you drop a little ink into clear water. Few 
came to see me ; and I suppose that they were full 
of pity and perhaps a little love for me in my help- 
less state, so that the light about them was pure 
and even ; but one day the good dame Ann, who 
tended me, in stooping to give me drink, thrust a 
dish off the table, which broke, and spilled its con- 
tents, and a dark flush came into the light that 
was round her for a moment. 

" Then too as I got better, and was able to see 
and speak with my people, there came to me several 
in trouble of different kinds, and the light was 
sullen and wavering ; one, whose name I will not 
tell you, came to me with a sin upon his mind, and 
the vapour was all dark and stained ; and so it has 
been till now ; and these last weeks it has been 
even stranger ; because by a kind of practice I 
have been led to infer what the thoughts in the 
mind of each person are, at first seeing them. It 
is true that they have not always told me in words 
what the light would seem to suggest ; but I have 
good reason to believe that the thoughts are 
there behind. 

" Now," he went on, " this is a sad and dreadful 



THE LIGHT OF THE BODY 283 

gift, and I do not desire it. It is horrible that the 
thoughts of men should be made manifest to a 
man, the thoughts that should be read only by 
God ; and I go to and fro in the world with this 
cruel horror upon me, and so I am in evil case." 

He ceased, as if tired of speaking, and the old 
Doctor mused, looking on the floor — then he shook 
his head and said, " My dear friend, I am power- 
less at present ; such a thing has never come to 
me before — you are as it were in a chamber of life 
that I have never visited, and I can but stand on 
the threshold and listen at a closed door." Then 
he was silent for a little, but presently he said, 
" This light that you speak of — does it envelop 
every one ? — do you see it about me as I speak 
with you ? " " Yes," said Herbert, turning his 
eyes upon the Doctor, "it is round you, very pure 
and clean ; you are giving all your heart to my 
story ; and it is a good and tender heart. You 
have not many sorrows except the sorrows of 
others," and then suddenly Herbert broke off with 
a vague gesture of the hand and looked at the 
Doctor with a bewildered look. " Finish what you 
were saying," said the Doctor with a grave look. 
" Nay, nay," said Herbert with a sad air, " you 
have sorrows indeed — the light changes and darkens 
— but they are not all for yourself." 

*' This is a strange thing," said the Doctor very 
seriously — " tell me what you mean." 

*' Then you must keep from thoughts on your 
trouble, whatever it is," said Herbert. " I would 
read no man's secrets ; but let this prove to you 
that I am not speaking of a mere sick fancy — ^turn 



284 THE LIGHT OF THE BODY 

not your thoughts on me." Then there was a 
pause and then Herbert said slowly, " As far as 
I can read the light, you did a wrong once, long 
ago, in your 3^outh, and bear the burden of it yet ; 
and you have striven to amend it ; and now it is 
not a selfish fear ; " — the priest mused a moment — 
" How, if the deed has borne fruit in another, for 
whom you sorrow, for you think that 3^our wrong- 
doing was the seed of his ? " 

The Doctor grew pale to the lips, and said in a 
low voice, " This is a very fearful gift, dear friend. 
You have indeed laid your finger on the sore spot 
— it is a thing I have never spoken of to any but 
God." 

Then there was a silence again ; and then Her- 
bert said, " But there is another thing of which I 
have not told you ; it is this ; you know what I 
was before m}^ illness — simple, I think, and humble, 
and with a heart that for all its faults was tender 
and faithful. Well, with this gift, that has all 
departed from me ; I seem to care neither for man 
nor God ; I see the trouble in another heart, and it 
moves me not. I feel as if I would not put out a 
finger to heal another's grief, except that habit has 
made it hard for me to do otherwise." And then 
with a sudden burst of passion, " Oh, my heart of 
stone ! " he said. 

The Doctor looked at him very sadly and lov- 
ingly, and then he rose. " I must be gone," he 
said, " but by your leave I will consult, without 
any mention of name, an old friend of mine, the 
wise physician of whom I spoke ; and meanwhile, 
dear friend, rest and be still. God has sent you 



THE LIGHT OF THE BODY 285 

a very strange and terrible gift, but He sends not 
His gifts in vain ; and you must see how you may 
use it for His service." 

" Yes, yes, I doubt not," said Herbert wearily — 
" but the will to serve is gone from me — I would 
I were sleeping quietly out yonder — ^the world is 
poisoned for me, and yet I loved it once." 

Then the old physician went away, lost in thought, 
and Herbert made attempt to address himself to 
his book, but he could not ; he looked back over 
his life, and saw himself a simple child, very inno- 
cent and loving ; he saw his eager and clean boy- 
hood, and how the thought had come into his mind 
to be a priest — it was not for a noble reason, Herbert 
thought ; he had loved the beauty of the dark 
rich church, the slow and dehcate music of the 
organ, the singing of the choir, the faint sweetness 
of the incense smoke, the solemn figures of the 
priests as they moved about the altar — it had been 
but a love of beauty and solemnity ; no desire to 
save others, and very little love to the Father, 
though a strange uplifted desire of heart toward 
the Lord Christ ; but as he thought of it now, 
sitting in the afternoon sunshine, it seemed to him 
as though he had loved the Saviour more for the 
beauty of worship which surrounded Him, throned 
as it were so piteously upon the awful Cross, lifted 
up, the desire of the world, in all His stainless 
strength and adorable suffering, to draw souls to 
Him. 

Then he had gone to Oxford, and he thought of 
liis time there, his small bare rooms, the punctual 
vivid life, so repressed, yet so full of human move- 



286 THE LIGHT OF THE BODY 

ment. Herbert had won friends very easily there, 
and the good fathers had loved him ; but all this 
love, looking back, seemed to him to have been 
called out not by the lovingness of his own heart, 
but by a certain unconscious charm, a sweet 
humility of manner, a readiness to please and be 
pleased, a desire to do what should win his com- 
panion, whoever it might chance to be. 

Then he went for a time as a young priest to the 
cathedral, as a vicar, and there again Hfe had been 
easy for him ; he had gained fame for a sort of 
easy and pathetic eloquence, that allowed him to 
make what he spoke of seem beautiful to those 
who heard it, but now Herbert thought sadly that 
he had not done this for love of the thoughts of 
which he spoke, but for the pleasure of arraying 
them so that they moved and pleased others ; and 
yet he had won some power over souls too, he had 
himself been so courteous, so gentle, so seeming 
tender, that others spoke easily to him of their 
troubles and seemed to find help in his words ; 
then had come the day when the Bishop had sent 
him to St. Mary's, and there too everything had 
been as easy to him as before. Yes, that had been 
the fault all through ! he had won by a certain 
grace what ought to have been won by deep purity 
and eager desire and great striving. 

And this too had at last begun to come home to 
him ; and then he had half despaired of changing 
himself. He had been like a shallow rippling 
brook, yet seemed to others Hke a swift and patient 
river ; and he had prayed very earnestly to God 
to change his heart ; to deepen and widen it, to 



THE LIGHT OF THE BODY 287 

make it strong and sincere and faithful. And was 
this, thought Herbert, the terrible answer ? was 
he who had loved ease and beauty on all sides, had 
loved the surface and the seeming of things, to be 
thrust violently into the deep places of the human 
heart, to be shown by a dreadful clearness of vision 
the stain, the horror, the shadow of the world ? 

But what was to him the most despairing thought 
of all was this — and thinking quietly over it, it 
seemed to him that if this clearness of vision had 
quickened his zeal to serve, if it had shown him 
how true and fierce was the battle to be waged in 
life, and how few men walked in the peace that 
was so near them that they could have taken it 
by stretching out their hand — if it had taught 
him this, had nerved his heart, had sent him speed- 
ing into the throng to heal the secret sorrows that 
his quickened sight could see, then the reason of 
the gift would have been plain to him ; but with 
the clearer vision had come this deadly apathy, 
this strange and bitter loathing for a world where 
all seemed so sweet outwardly and was so heavy- 
hearted within. And Herbert thought of how 
once as a child he had seen a beautiful rose-bush 
just bursting into bloom ; and he had gone near 
to draw the sweet scent into his nostrils, and had 
recognised a dreadful heavy odour below and behind 
the delicate scent of the roses, and there, when he 
put the bush aside, was the swollen body of a dog 
that had crept into the very heart of the bush to 
die, and tainted all the air with the horror of death. 
He had hated roses long after, and now it seemed 
to him that all the world was like that. 



288 THE LIGHT OF THE BODY 

He came suddenly out of his sad reverie with a 
start ; the bell of the church began to toll for 
vespers, and he rose up wearily enough to go. His 
work, he hardly dared confess to himself, was a 
heavy burden to him ; of old he had found great 
peace, day by day, in the quiet evensong in the 
dark cool church, the few worshippers, the gracious 
pleading of the ancient psalms, so sweet in them- 
selves, and so fragrant with the incense of im- 
memorial prayer ; and he thought that, besides the 
actual worshippers, there were round him a great 
company of faithful souls, unseen yet none the 
less present — all this had been to him a deep re- 
freshment, a draught of the waters of comfort ; 
but now there was never a gathering when the 
dark trouble of thought in other souls was not 
visibly revealed to him. 

He went slowly across the little garden in front 
of the house ; there by the road grew a few flowers 
— for Herbert loved to have all things trim and 
bright about him. A boy was leaning over the rail 
looking at the flowers ; and Herbert saw, in the 
secret light that hung round the child, the darken- 
ing flush that told of the presence of some con- 
science-stricken wish. The child got hurriedly 
down from the rail at the sight of Herbert, who 
stopped and called him. " Little one," he said, 
" come hither." The child stood a moment ab- 
sorbed, finger on lip, and presently came up to 
Herbert, who gathered a few of the flowers and 
put them into the child's hands. " Here is a posy 
for you," he said, " but, dear one, remember this — 
the flowers were mine, and you did desire them. 



THE LIGHT OF THE BODY 289 

God sends us gifts sometimes and sometimes not ; 
when He sends them, it is well to take them grate- 
fully, thus — but if He gives them not, and the 
voice within says, ' Then will I take them,' we must 
fly from temptation. Do you understand that, 
little one ? " The child stood considering a mo- 
ment, and then shyly gave the flowers back. "Ay, 
that is right," said Herbert, " but you may take 
them now — God gives them to you ! " and he 
stooped and kissed the child on the forehead. 

A few days after the old physician came again 
to see Herbert, evidently troubled. He told Her- 
bert that he had consulted his friend, who could 
make nothing of the case. " He said — " he added, 
and then stopped short. "Nay, I will tell you," 
he went on, " for in such a matter we may not 
hesitate. He said that it was a delusion of the 
mind, not of the eye — and that it was more a case 
for a priest than for a doctor." "He is right," 
said Herbert. " I had even thought of that — and 
I will do what I ought to have done before. I 
will take my story to my lord the Bishop and I 
will ask his advice ; he is my friend, and he has 
been a true father to my spirit — and he is a good 
and holy man as well." 

So Herbert wrote to the Bishop, and the Bishop 
appointed a day to see him. The cathedral city 
was but a few miles from Parbridge, and Herbert 
went thither by boat because he was not strong 
enough to walk. The river ran through a flat 
country, with distant hills on a far horizon ; the 
clear flowing of the water, the cool weedy bowers 
and gravelled spaces seen beneath, and the green 

T 



290 THE LIGHT OF THE BODY 

and glistening rushes that stood up so fresh and 
strong out of the ripple pleased Herbert's tired 
mind ; he tried much to think what he would say 
to the Bishop ; but he could frame no arguments 
and thought it best to leave it, and to say what 
God might put in his mouth to say. 

He found the Bishop writing in a little panelled 
room that gave on a garden. He was in his purple 
cassock ; he rose at Herbert's entrance, and greeted 
him very kindly. The Bishop's face was smooth 
and fresh-coloured and lit with a pleasant light of 
benevolence. He was an active man, and loved 
little businesses, which he did with all his might. 
He, like all that knew Herbert, loved him and 
found pleasure in his company. So Herbert took 
what courage he might — though he saw somewhat 
that he was both grieved and surprised to see — 
and told his story, though his heart was heavy, 
and he thought somehow that the Bishop would 
not understand him. While he spoke the Bishop's 
face grew very grave, for he did not love things 
out of the common ; but he asked him questions 
from time to time — and when Herbert said that 
the trouble had come upon him after a stroke of 
the sun, the Bishop's face lightened a little, and he 
said that the sun at its hottest had great power. 

When Herbert had quite finished, the Bishop 
said courteously that he thought it was a case 
for a physician, and Herbert said that he had 
himself thought so, but that the doctors could do 
nothing, but had sent him back to the priests. 
Then the Bishop made as though he would speak, 
and cleared his throat, but spake nothing. At 



THE LIGHT OF THE BODY 291 

last he said, " Dear son, this is a strange and heavy 
affliction ; but I think it will give way to rest and 
quiet — and prayer," he added a little shamefacedly. 
" These bodies of ours are delicate instruments, 
and if we work them too hard — as methinks you 
have done — they get overstrained in the place in 
w^hich vv^e drive them ; and just as a scholar who 
has been disordered dreams of books, and as a 
doctor thus afflicted would have grievous fancies 
of diseases, so you, my dear son, who have been 
a very faithful priest, are thus sadly concerned 
with the souls of the flock of Christ — and so my 
advice is that you go and rest ; and if you will, 
I Vvill send you a little priest to help you for awhile 
— or you may travel abroad for a time, and see 
fresh things ; and, dear son, if there be any narrow- 
ness of means, I v/ill myself supply your necessities, 
and deem the money well lent to the Lord — and so be 
comforted ! " — and he put out his hand to bless him. 
Herbert was moved by the Bishop's kindness ; 
but he felt that the Bishop did not see the matter 
aright, but thought it all a sad delusion ; and he 
made up his mind to speak. So he said, " Dear 
father and m^' lord, forgive me if I speak yet 
further — for I am greatly moved by your kindness, 
but in this case there is need of great frankness. 
It is not indeed as your goodness thinks ; indeed 
there is no delusion, but a real and yet grievous 
power of sight — which I pray God would remove from 
me — and that as He took the scales off the eyes 
of the blessed Paul, so I pray that He would put 
them back on mine. For I see the things I would 
not, and to me is revealed what ought to be hidden." 



292 THE LIGHT OF THE BODY 

Then the Bishop looked a Httle angered by 
Herbert's insistence, and said, " Dear son, if this 
were a gift of God to you, it would be more than 
He gave even to the blessed Apostles, for we read 
of no such gift being given to man. Some He made 
apostles, and some evangelists, but we hear not 
that He made any to see the very secrets of the 
soul — such sight is given to God alone — and indeed, 
dear son, for I will use the same frankness as your- 
self, it seems to me but a chastening from God. 
He delivers even those He loves (like the blessed 
Paul himself, and Austin, and others whom I need 
not name) to Satan to be buffeted ; and though 
I have myself no fault to find with your ministra- 
tion, it is plain to me that God is not satisfied, 
and by His chastening would lead you higher yet." 

" But come, for I will ask you a question. This 
light that you speak of, that plays about the heads 
(is it so ?) of other men, is it always there ? Has 
it, to ask an instance, appeared to you with me ? 
I charge you to speak to me with entire freedom 
in this matter." So Herbert raised his eyes, and 
looked the Bishop in the face, and said very gravely, 
" Yes, dear father, it doth appear." 

Then the Bishop's face changed a little, and 
Herbert saw that he was moved ; then the Bishop 
said with a kind of smile, as though he forced him- 
self, " And what is it like ? " And Herbert said, 
looking shamefacedly upon the ground, " Must I 
answer the question truly ? " And the Bishop 
said, " Yes, upon your vows." Then Herbert 
said, " Dear father, it is strangely dark and angry." 
Then the Bishop, knitting his brows, said, " Does 



THE LIGHT OF THE BODY 293 

it seem so ? And how is this a true Hght ? My 
son, I speak to you plainly ; I am a sinner indeed 
— we are all such — but my whole life is spent in 
labour for God's Church, and I can truly say that 
from hour to hour I think not of carnal things, 
but all my desire is to feed and keep the flock. 
How dost thou interpret that ? " And Herbert, 
very low, said, " My lord, must I speak ? " And 
the Bishop said, " Yes, upon your vows." Then 
Herbert said very slowly and sadly, " My lord, I 
know indeed that your heart is with the work of 
the Lord, and that you labour abundantly. But 
can it be — I speak as a faithful son, and sore un- 
willing — that you have your pleasure in this work, 
and think of yourself as a profitable servant ? " 

Then the Bishop looked very blackly upon him 
and said, " You take too much upon yourself, 
my son. This is indeed the messenger of Satan 
that hath you in his grip ; but I will pray for you 
if the Lord will heal you — it may be that there is 
some dark sin upon your mind ; and if so pluck 
it out of the heart. But we will talk no more ; 
I will only tell you to rest and pray, and think 
not of these lights and flashes, which are never told 
of in Holy Church, except in the case of those 
who are held of evil." And he rose and made a 
gesture that Herbert should go ; so Herbert kissed the 
Bishop's hand and went very sadly out, for it seemed 
as though his burden was too great for him to bear. 
^vThere followed very sad and weary days when 
Herbert hardly knew hov/ he could bear the sorrow 
that pressed upon him. But he preached dihgently, 
and went in and out among his people. And in 



294 THE LIGHT OF THE BODY 

that time he helped many sad souls and set strug- 
gling feet upon the right road, though he knew it 
not and even cared not. 

One day he was walking in the street, and came 
past a little mean house that lay on the outskirts 
of the town. There was a small and pitiful garden, 
sadly disordered, that lay in front of the house. 
Here there dwelt a wretched man named John, 
who had done an evil deed in his youth. He had 
robbed his mother, it was said, a poor and crippled 
woman, of her little savings ; she had struggled hard 
for her all, but he had beaten her off, and done her 
violence, and she, between grief and disease, had died. 
In her last hour she had told the tale ; her son had 
been driven from his employment, and the hearts 
of all had turned against him. He had left the place, 
but a few years after he had returned, a man old 
before his time, with a sore disease upon him, in 
which all readily saw the wise judgment of God. 

He had settled in the little house which had 
been his mother's before him, and had stood vacant. 
But none would admit him to their houses or give 
him work. Occasionally, when labour was short, 
he had a task given him ; but he was slow and 
feeble, and those that worked with him mocked 
and derided him. He bore all mockeries patiently 
and silently, with a kind of hunted look ; but none 
pitied him, and the very children of the street 
would point at him, call him murderer, and throw 
stones at him. He would seek at times to do a 
kindness to the poor and sorrowful b}^ stealth, but 
his help was often refused even with anger. 

Herbert had seen a little sight a few days before 



THE LIGHT OF THE BODY 295 

that stuck in his mind. He had been passing along 
the road that led into the country, and had seen 
some way ahead of him a Httle child, a girl, with 
a heavy burden. She had put it down by the 
wood to rest, when John came suddenly upon her 
from a lane, where he had been wandering, as his 
manner was. The girl had seemed frightened, 
but Herbert, making haste to join them — ^for he 
too had a great suspicion of the man — ^saw him 
speak gently to her and lift up her burden, and walk 
on with her. Herbert followed afar off, but gained 
on the pair, and as he came up heard him speak- 
ing to her, and as Herbert thought, telling her a 
simple story about the birds and flowers. The 
child was listening half timidly, when from a gate 
beside the road, which led to the farm to v/hich the 
child was bound, came out her mother, a tall good- 
humoured woman, who snatched the burden out 
of the hands of John, and dusted it over with her 
apron, as though his touch had polluted it. Then 
she scolded the child and then fell to rating John 
with very cruel words. 

Herbert came up and from a distance saw John 
stand very meekly with bowed head ; and presently 
he turned away when the angry woman departed, 
and Herbert heard him sigh very heavily. He 
had then half formed a purpose to speak with the 
man, but he trusted him little, and the old story 
of his crime chased pity out of Herbert's mind. 

Now to-day the sight of the neglected house 
and wretched garden drew his mind to the outcast ; 
Herbert could not think how the man lived, and his 
heart smote him for not having tried to comfort him. 



296 THE LIGHT OF THE BODY 

So he turned aside and lifted the latch, and went 
up under an old apple tree that hung over the path, 
and knocked at the door. Presently it was opened 
by John himself, who stood there, a wretched figure 
of a man, bowed with disease, and his face all ugly 
and scarred. Herbert, who loved things beautiful, 
was strangely touched with disgust at the sight of 
him, but he overcame it, and spoke gently to him, 
and asked if he might come in and rest awhile. 

The man, although he hardly seemed to under- 
stand, made way for him, and Herbert entered a 
room that he thought the meanest and ugliest he 
had ever seen. The walls were green with mould, 
and the paved floor was all sunken and cracked. 
There was no table, nothing but a bench b}/ the 
fireplace, on which lay coarse roots and the leaves 
of some bitter herb. 

Herbert went on talking quietly about the fine 
summer and the pleasant season of the year, and 
sate down upon the bench. And then he had a 
great surprise. All about the miserable man who 
stood before him shone the clearest and purest 
radiance of light he had ever beheld about a human 
being, gushing in a pure fountain over his head and 
heart, untouched by the least spot of darkness. It 
came into Herbert's mind that he had found a man 
who was very near to God ; and so he put all other 
things aside, and saying that he was truly sorry 
that he had not sought him out before, asked him 
in gentle and loving words to tell him all the old 
sad story. And there, sitting in the mean room, 
he heard the tale. 

John spoke slowly and haltingly, as one who 



THE LIGHT OF THE BODY 297 

had little use of speech ; and the story was far 
different from what Herbert had believed. The 
hoard was not that of John's mother, but John's 
own, which he had entrusted to her. He had asked 
it of her for a purpose that seemed good enough, 
to buy a little garden where he thought he could 
rear fruits and flowers ; but she had had the money 
so long that she considered it to be her own. In 
telHng the story, John laid no blame upon her, 
but found much to say against himself, and he 
seemed bowed down with utter contrition that 
he had ever asked it of her. She had struck liim, 
it seemed, and so his wrath had overmastered him, 
and he had torn the money from her hands and gone 
out. Then she had fallen sick, and died before 
his return, and after that no one had been willing 
to listen to him. Herbert had asked him what 
had become of the money, and John told him, with 
a sort of shame, that he had thrust it into the 
church-box — " I could not touch the price of blood," 
he said. 

Then Herbert spoke very lovingly to him and 
tried to comfort him, but John said that he knew 
himself to be the most miserable of sinners, and that 
he could not be forgiven, and that he deserved his 
chastising every whit. And he told Herbert a 
tale of secret suffering and hunger and cold and 
weariness, such as had never fallen on Herbert's 
ears, but all without any thought of pity for him- 
self — indeed, he said, God was very good to him ; 
for He let him live, and even allowed him to take 
pleasure in the green trees, and the waving grass, 
and the voices of birds. " And some day," said 



298 THE LIGHT OF THE BODY 

John, " when I have suffered enough, I think the 
Father will forgive me, for I am sorry for my sin." 

The v/ater stood in Herbert's eyes, but he found 
some words of comfort, and knelt and prayed with 
the outcast, telling him that indeed he was forgiven. 
And he saw a look of joy strike like sunlight across 
the poor face, when he said that he w^ould not fail 
to visit him. And he further told him that he 
should come to the Parsonage next day, and he 
would give him work to do ; and then he shook 
his hand and departed, a little gladder than he had 
been for a month. 

But on the next day he was bidden early to the 
cottage ; John had been found sitting on the little 
bench outside his door, cold and dead, with a strange 
and upturned look almost as though he had seen 
the heaven opened. 

He was buried a few days after ; none were found 
to stand at the grave but Herbert, and the clerk 
who came unwillingly. 

Then, on the next Sunday, Herbert made a little 
sermon at Evensong and told them all the story 
of John's life, and his atonement. " My brothers 
and sisters," he said very softly, making a pause, 
the silence in the church being breathless below him, 
" here was a true saint of God among us, and we 
knew it not. He sinned, though not so grievously 
as we thought, he suffered grievously, and he took 
his suffering as meekly as the little child of whom 
the dear Lord said that of such was the Kingdom. 
Dear friends, I tell you a truth from my heart ; 
that in the day when we stand, if we are given to 
stand, beneath the Throne of God, this our poor 



THE LIGHT OF THE BODY 299 

brother will be nearer to the Throne than any of 
us, in robes of light, and very close to the Father's 
heart. May the Father forgive us all, and let us 
be pitiful and merciful, if by any means we may 
obtain mercy." 

That night, in a dream, it seemed as if some one 
came suddenly out of a dark place like a grave, 
and stood before Herbert, exceedingly glorious 
to behold. How the change had passed upon 
him Herbert could not tell, for it was John him- 
self, the same, yet transformed into a spirit of 
purest light. And he smiled upon Herbert and 
said, "It is even so, dear brother ; and now am I 
comforted in glory — and now that you have seen 
the truth, the Father would have me visit you to 
tell you that the trouble laid upon you is departed. 
Only be true and faithful, and lead souls the nearest 
way." And in a moment he was gone, but seemed 
to leave a shining track upon the darkness. 

The next morning Herbert awoke with a strange 
stirring of the heart. He looked abroad from his 
window, and saw the dew upon the grass, and the 
quiet trees awakening. And he could hardly contain 
himself for gladness. When he went to the church, 
he knew all at once that his sorrov/ had departed 
from him, and that he saw no deeper into the heart 
than other men. The lights that had seemed to 
shine round others were gone, and his heart was 
full of love and pity again. 

His first visit was to the house of the old physician, 
who greeted him very kindly ; and Herbert with 
a kind of happy radiance told him that the trouble 
was departed from him as suddenly as it came ; 



300 THE LIGHT OF THE BODY 

" and," he added, " dear friend, God has shown me 
marvellous things — I have seen a soul in glory." 
The old physician's eyes filled vv^ith tears and he said, 
" This is very wonderful and gracious." 

The same day came a carriage from the Bishop 
to fetch Herbert, for the Bishop desired to see him. 
He went in haste, and was amazed to see that when 
the carriage came to the door of the Bishop's house, 
the Bishop himself came out to receive him as though 
he had waited for him. 

The Bishop greeted him very lovingly and took 
him into his room, and when the door was shut, 
he said, " Dear son, I sent you from me the other 
day in bitterness of heart ; for you had spoken 
the truth to me, and I could not bear it ; and now 
I ask your forgiveness ; you found as it were 
the key to my spirit, and flung the door open ; 
and God has shown me that you were right, and 
that the most secret shrine of my heart, where the 
fire should burn clearest, was dark and bare. I 
gave not God the glory, but laid violent hands 
upon it for myself ; and now, if God will, all shall 
be changed, and I will do my work for God and 
not for myself, and strive to be humble of heart," 
and the Bishop's eyes were full of tears. And he 
held out his hand to Herbert, who took it ; and so 
they sate for a while. Then Herbert said, " Dear 
father, I will also tell you something. God has 
taken away from me the terrible gift ; also He 
has shown me the sight of a human spirit, made 
perfect in suffering and patience ; and I am very 
joyful thereat." So they held sweet converse to- 
gether, and were very glad at heart. 



THE SNAKE, THE LEPER, AND 
THE GREY FROST 

In the heart of the Forest of Seale lay the little 
village of Birnewood Fratrum, like a lark's nest in 
a meadow of tall grass. It was approached by 
green wood-ways, very miry in winter. The folk 
that lived there were mostly woodmen. There was 
a little church, the stones of which seemed to have 
borrowed the hue of the forest, and close beside 
it a small timbered house, the Parsonage, with a 
garden of herbs. Those who saw Birnewood in the 
summer, thought of it as a place where a weary 
man might rest for ever, in an ancient peace, with 
the fresh mossy smell of the wood blowing through 
it, and the dark cool branching covert to muse in 
on every side. But it was a different place in 
winter, with ragged clouds rolling overhead and 
the bare boughs sighing in the desolate gales ; 
though again in a frosty winter evening it would 
be fair enough, with the red sun sinking over miles 
of trees. 

From the village green a little track led into the 
forest, and, a furlong or two inside, ended in an 
open space thickly overgrown with elders, where 
stood the gaunt skeleton of a ruined tower staring 
with bare windows at the wayfarer. The story of 
the tower was sad enough. The last owner, Sir 

Ralph Birne, was on the wrong side in a rebellion, 

301 



302 THE SNAKE, THE LEPER, ETC. 

and died on the scaffold, his lands forfeited to the 
crown. The tower was left desolate, and piece by 
piece the villagers carried away all that was useful 
to them, leaving the shell of a house, though at the 
time of which I speak the roof still held, and the 
floors, though rotting fast, still bore the weight of 
a foot. 

In the Parsonage lived an old priest, Father John, 
as he was called, and with him a boy who was held 
to be his nephew, Ralph by name, now eighteen 
years of age. The boy was very dear to Father 
John, who v\^as a wise and loving man. To many 
it might have seemed a dull life enough, but Ralph 
had known no other, having come to the Parsonage 
as a child. Of late indeed Ralph had begun to feel 
a strange desire grow and stir within him, to see 
what the world was like outside the forest ; such 
a desire would come on him at early morning, in 
the fresh spring days, and he would watch some 
lonely traveller riding slowly to the south with an 
envious look ; though as like as not the wayfarer 
would be envying the bright boy, with his back- 
ground of quiet woods. But such fancies only 
came and went, and he said nothing to the old 
priest about them, who nevertheless had marked 
the change for himself with the instinct of love, 
and would sometimes, as he sate with his breviary, 
follow the boy about with his eyes, in which the 
wish to keep him strove with the knowledge that 
the bird must some day leave the nest. 

One summer morning, the old priest shut his 
book, with the air of a man v/ho has made up his 
mind in sadness, and asked Ralph to walk with 



THE SNAKE, THE LEPER, ETC. 303 

him. They went to the tower, and there, sitting 
in the ruins, Father John told Ralph the story of 
the house, which he had often heard before. But 
now there was so tender and urgent a tone in the 
priest's voice that Ralph heard him wonderingly ; 
and at last the priest very solemnly, after a silence, 
said that there was something in his mind that 
must be told ; and he went on to say that Ralph 
was indeed the heir of the tower ; he was the grand- 
son of Sir Ralph, who died upon the scaffold ; his 
father had died abroad, dispossessed of his in- 
heritance ; and the priest said that in a few da^'s 
he himself would set out on a journey, too long 
deferred, to see a friend of his, a Canon of a neigh- 
bouring church, to learn if it were possible that 
some part of the lands might be restored to Ralph 
by the king's grace. For the young king that had 
newly come to the throne was said to be very 
merciful and just, and punished not the sins of the 
fathers upon the children ; but Father John said 
that he hardly dared to hope it ; and then he 
bound Ralph to silence ; and then after a pause 
he added, taking one of the boy's hands in his own, 
" And it is time, dear son, that you should leave 
this quiet place and make a name for yourself ; 
my days draw to an end ; perhaps I have been 
wrong to keep you here to myself, but I have striven 
to make you pure and simple, and if I was in fault, 
why, it has been the fault of love." And the boy 
threw his arms round the priest's neck and kissed 
him, seeing that tears trembled in his eyes, and 
said that he was more than content, and that he 
should never leave his uncle and the peaceful forest 



304 THE SNAKE, THE LEPER, ETC. 

that he loved. But the priest saw an unquiet look 
in his eye, as of a sleeper awakened, and knew the 
truth. 

A few days after, the priest rode away at sunrise ; 
and Ralph was left alone. In his head ran an old 
tale, which he had heard from the woodmen, of a 
great treasure of price, which was hidden some- 
where in the tower. Then it came into his mind 
that there dwelt not far away in the wood an 
ancient wise man who gave counsel to all who asked 
for it, and knew the virtues of plants, and the 
courses of buried springs, and many hidden things 
beside. Ralph had never been to the house of the 
wise man, but he knew the direction where it lay ; 
so with the secret in his heart, he made at once 
for the place. The day was very hot and still, and 
no birds sang in the wood. Ralph walked swiftly 
along the soft green road, and came at last upon a 
little grey house of plaster, with beams of timber, 
that stood in a clearing near a spring, v/ith a garden 
of its own ; a fragrant smell came from a sprawling 
bush of box, and the bees hummed busily over the 
flowers. There was no smoke from the chimney, 
and the single window that gave on the road, in a 
gable, looked at him like a dark eye. He went up 
the path, and stood before the door waiting, when 
a high thin voice, like an evening wind, called from 
within, " Come in and fear not, thou that tarriest 
on the threshold." Ralph, with a strange stirring 
of the blood at the silver sound of the voice, un- 
latched the door and entered. He found himself 
in a low dark room, with a door opposite him ; in 
the roof hung bundles of herbs ; there was a large 



THE SNAKE, THE LEPER, ETC. 305 

oak table strewn with many things of daily use, 
and sitting in a chair, with his back to the light, 
sate a very old thin man, with a frosty beard, clad 
in a loose grey gown. Over the fireplace hung a 
large rusty sword ; the room was very clean and 
cool, and the sunlight danced on the ceiling, with 
the flicker of moving leaves. 

" Your name and errand ? " said the old man,ifixing 
his grey eyes, like flint stones, upon the boy, not 
unkindly. " Ralph," said the boy. '* Ralph," said 
the old man, ** and why not add Birne to Ralph ? 
that makes a fairer name." 

Ralph was so much bewildered at this strange 
greeting, that he stood confused — at which the old 
man pointed to a settle, and said, " And now, boy, 
sit down and speak with me ; you are Ralph from 
Birnewood Parsonage, I know — Father John is 
doubtless away — ^he has no love for me, though I 
know him to be a true man." 

Then little by little he unravelled the boy's desire, 
and the story of the treasure. Then he said, kindly 
enough, " Yes, it is ever thus — well, lad, I will tell 
you ; and heed my words well. The treasure is 
there ; and you shall indeed find it ; but prepare 
for strange sounds and sights." And as he said 
this, he took the young hand in his own for a 
moment,^ and a strange tide of sensation seemed to 
pass along the boy's veins. " Look in my face," 
the old man went on, " that I may see that you 
have faith — for without faith such quests are vain." 
Ralph raised his eyes to those of the old man, 
and then a sensation such as he had never felt 
before came over him ; it was like looking from a 

u 



3o6 THE SNAKE, THE LEPER, ETC. 

window into a wide place, full of darkness and 
wonder. 

Then the old man said solemnly, " Child, the 
time is come — I have waited long for you, and the 
door is open." 

Then he said, with raised hand, " The journey is 
not long, but it must be done in a waking hour ; 
sleep not on the journey ; that first. And of three 
things beware — ^the Snake, and the Leper, and the 
Grey Frost ; for these three things have brought 
death to wiser men than yourself. There," he 
added, " that is your note of the way ; now make 
the journey, if you have the courage." 

" But, sir," said Ralph in perplexity, " you say 
to me, make the journey ; and you tell me not 
whither to go. And you tell me to beware of three 
things. How shall I know them to avoid them ? " 

" You will know them when you have seen them," 
said the old man sadly, *' and that is the most that 
men can know ; and as for the journey, you can 
start upon it wherever you are, if 3/our heart is 
pure and strong." 

Then Ralph said, trembling, " Father, my heart 
is pure, I think ; but I know not v/hether I am 
strong." 

Then the old man reached out his hand, and took 
up a staff that leant by the chair ; and from a pocket 
in his gown he took a small metal thing shaped 
like a five-pointed star ; and he said, " Ralph, here 
is a staff and a holy thing ; and now set forth." 
So Ralph rose, and took the staff and the star, 
and made a reverence, and murmured thanks ; and 
then he went to the door by which he had entered ; 



THE SNAKE, THE LEPER, ETC. 307 

but the old man said, " Nay, it is the other door," 
and then he bent down his head upon his arms 
like one who wept. 

Ralph went to the other door and opened it ; he 
had thought it led into the wood ; but when he 
opened it, it was dark and cold without ; and 
suddenly with a shock of strange terror he saw that 
outside was a place like a hill-top, with short strong 
grass, and clouds sweeping over it. He would have 
drawn back, but he was ashamed ; so he stepped 
out and closed the door behind him ; and then 
the house was gone in a moment like a dream, and 
he was alone on the hill, with the wind whistling 
in his ears. 

He waited for a moment in the clutch of a great 
fear ; but he felt he was alive and well, and little 
by little his fear disappeared and left him eager. 
He went a fev/ steps forward, and saw that the 
hill sloped downv/ard, and downward he went, by 
steep slopes of turf and scattered grey stones. 
Presently the mist seemed to blow thinner, and 
through a gap he saw a land spread out below 
him ; and soon he came out of the cloud, and 
saw a lonely forest country, all unlike his own, for 
the trees seemed a sort of pine, with red stems, 
very tall and sombre. He looked round, and 
presently he saw that a little track below him 
seemed to lead downward into the pines, so he 
gained the track ; and soon he came down to the 
wood. 

There was no sign as yet of any habitation ; he 
heard the crying of birds, and at one place he saw 
a number of crows that stood round something 



3o8 THE SNAKE, THE LEPER, ETC. 

white that lay upon the ground, and pecked at it ; 
and he turned not aside, thinking, he knew not 
why, that there was some evil thing there. But 
he did not feel alone, and he had a thought which 
dwelt with him that there were others bound upon 
the same quest as himself, though he saw nothing 
of them. Once indeed he thought he saw a man 
walking swiftly, his face turned away, among the 
pines ; but the trees blotted him from his sight. 
Then he passed by a great open marsh with reeds 
and still pools of water, where he wished to rest ; 
but he pushed on the faster, and suddenly, turning 
a corner, saw that the track led him straight to a 
large stone house, that stood solitary in the wood. 
He knew in a moment that this was the end of his 
journey, and marvelled within himself at the ease 
of the quest ; he went straight up to the house, 
which seemed all dark and silent, and smote loudly 
and confidently on the door ; some one stirred 
within, and it was presently opened to him. He 
thought now that he would be questioned, but the 
man who opened to him, a grave serving-man, made 
a motion with his hand, and he went up a flight of 
stone steps. 

As he went up, there came out from a door, as 
though to meet him with honour, a tall and noble 
personage, very cheerful and comely, and with a 
courteous greeting took him into a large room richly 
furnished ; Ralph began to tell his story, but the 
man made a quiet gesture with his hand as though 
no explanation was needed, and went at once to 
a press, which he opened, and brought out from it 
a small coffer, which seemed heavy, and opened 



THE SNAKE, THE LEPER, ETC. 309 

it before him ; Ralph could not see clearly what 
it contained, but he saw the sparkle of gold and 
what seemed like jewels. The man smiled at liim, 
and as though in reply to a question said, " Yes, 
this is what you came to seek ; and you are well 
worthy of it ; and my lord " — ^he bowed as he 
spoke — " is glad to bestow his riches upon one who 
found the road so easy hither, and who came from 
so honoured a friend . ' ' Then he said very courteously 
that he would willingly have entertained him, and 
shown him more of the treasures of the house ; 
" but I know," he added, " that your business 
requires haste and you would be gone ; " and so 
he conducted him very gently down to the door 
again, and presently Ralph was standing outside 
with the precious coffer under his arm, wondering 
if he were not in a dream ; because he had found 
what he sought so soon, and with so Httle trouble. 

The porter stood at the door, and said in a quiet 
voice, " The way is to the left, and through the 
wood." Ralph thanked him, and the porter said, 
" You know, young sir, of what you are to beware, 
for the forest has an evil name ? " And when 
Ralph replied that he knew, the porter said that 
it was well to start betimes, because the way was 
somewhat long. So Ralph went out along the 
road, and saw the porter standing at the door for 
a long time, watching him, he thought, with a kind 
of tender gaze. 

Ralph took the road that led to the left, very 
light-hearted ; it was pleasant under the pines, 
which had made a soft brown carpet of needles ; 
and the scent of the pine-gum was sharp and sweet . 



310 THE SNAKE, THE LEPER, ETC. 

He went for a mile or two thus, while the day 
darkened above him, and the wind whispered like 
a falling sea among the branches. At last he came 
to another great marsh, but a path led down to it 
from the road, and in the path were strange marks 
as though some hea\^ thing had been dragged 
along, with footprints on either side. Ralph went 
a few steps down the path, when suddenly an 
evil smell passed by him ; he had been thinking of 
a picture in one of Father John's books of a man 
fighting with a dragon, and the brave horned 
creature, with its red mouth and white teeth, with 
ribbed wings and bright blue burnished mail, and 
a tail armed with a sting, had seemed to him a 
curious and beautiful sight, that a man might well 
desire to see ; the thought of danger was hardly 
in his heart. 

Suddenly he heard below him in the reeds a 
great routing and splashing ; the rushes parted, 
and he saw a huge and ugly creature, with black 
oily sides and a red mane of bristles, raise itself 
up and regard him. Its sides dropped with mud, 
and its body was wrapped with clinging weeds. 
But it moved so heavily and slow, a,nd drew itself 
out on to the bank with such pain, that Ralph saw 
that there was Httle danger to one so fleet as him- 
self, if he drew not near. The beast opened its 
great mouth, and Ralph saw a blue tongue and a 
pale throat ; it regarded him hungrily with small 
evil eyes ; but Ralph sprang backwards, and 
laughed to see how lumberingiy the brute trailed 
itself along. Its hot and fetid breath made a 
smoke in the still air ; presently it desisted, and 



THE SNAKE, THE LEPER, ETC. 311 

as though it desired the coohiess, it writhed back 
into the water again. And Ralph saw that it was 
only a beast that crept upon its prey by stealth, 
and that though if he had slept, or bathed in the 
pool, it might have drawn him in to devour him, 
yet that one who was wary and active need have 
no fear ; so he went on his way ; and blew out 
great breaths to get the foul watery smell of the 
monster out of his nostrils. 

Suddenly he began to feel weary ; he did not 
know what time of day it was in this strange 
country, where ail was fresh like a dewy morning ; 
he had not seen the sun, though the sky was clear, 
and he fell to wondering where the light came 
from ; as he wondered, he came to a stone bench 
by the side of the road where he thought he would 
sit a little ; he would be all the fresher for a timely 
rest ; he sate down, and as though to fill the place 
with a heavenly peace, he heard at once doves 
hallooing in the thicket close at hand ; while he 
sate drinking in the charm of the sound, there was 
a flutter of wings, and a dove alighted close to his 
feet ; it walked about crooning softly, with its 
nodding neck flashing with delicate colours, and 
its pink feet running swiftly on the grass. He felt 
in his pocket and found there a piece of bread 
which he had taken v/ith him in the morning and 
had never thought of tasting ; he crumbled it for 
the bird, who fell to picking it eagerly and grate- 
fully, bowing its head as though in courteous ac- 
loiowledgmxcnt. Ralph leant forwards to watch it, 
and the ground swam before his weary eyes. He 
sate back for a moment, and then he would have 



312 THE SNAKE, THE LEPER, ETC. 

slept, when he saw a small bright thing dart from 
a crevice of the stone seat on to his knee. He bent 
forward to look at it, and saw that it was a thing 
like a lizard, but without legs, of a powdered green, 
strangely bright. It nestled on his knee in a little 
coil and watched him with keen eyes. The trust- 
fulness of these wild creatures pleased him wonder- 
fully. Suddenly, very far away and yet near him, 
he heard the sound of a voice, like a man in prayer ; 
it reminded him, he knew not why, of the Wise 
Man's voice, and he rose to his feet ashamed of his 
drowsiness. The little liz;ard darted from his leg 
and on to the ground, as though vexed to be dis- 
turbed, and he saw it close to his feet. The dove 
saw it too, and went to it as though inquiringly ; 
the lizard showed no fear, but coiled itself up, and 
as the dove came close, made a little dart at its 
breast, and the dove drew back. Ralph was 
amused at the fearlessness of the little thing, but 
in a moment saw that something ailed the dove ; 
it moved as though dizZy, and then spread its wings 
as if for flight, but dropped them again and nestled 
down on the ground. In a moment its pretty head 
fell forwards and it lay motionless. Then with a 
shock of fear Ralph saw that he had been nearly 
betrayed ; that this was the Snake itself of which 
he had been warned ; he struck with his staff at 
the little venomous thing, which darted forward 
with a wicked hiss, and Ralph only avoided it with 
a spring. Then without an instant's thought he 
turned and ran along the wood-path, chiding him- 
self bitterly for his folly. He had nearly slept ; 
he had only not been stung to death ; and he 



THE SNAKE, THE LEPER, ETC. 313 

thought of how he would have lain, a stiffening 
figure, till the crows gathered round him and 
pulled the flesh from his bones. 

After this the way became more toilsome ; the 
track indeed was plain enough, but it was strewn 
with stones, and little thorny plants grew every- 
where, which tripped his feet and sometimes pierced 
his skin ; it grew darker too, as though night were 
coming on. Presently he came to a clearing in the 
forest ; on a slope to his right hand, he saw a little 
hut of boughs, with a few poor garden herbs about 
it. A man was crouched among them, as though 
he were digging ; he was only some thirty paces 
away ; Ralph stopped for a moment, and the man 
rose up and looked at him. Ralph saw a strangely 
distorted face under a hairless brow. There were 
holes where the eyes should have been, and in these 
the eyes were so deeply sunk that they looked but 
like pits of shade. Presently the other began to 
move towards him, waving a large misshapen hand 
which gleamed with a kind of scurfy whiteness ; 
and he cried out unintelligible words, which seemed 
half angry, half piteous. Ralph knew that the 
Leper was before him, and though he loathed to 
fly before so miserable a wretch, he turned and 
hurried on into the forest ; the creature screamed 
the louder, and it seemed as though he were asking 
an alms, but he hobbled so slowly on his thick legs, 
foully bandaged with rags, that Ralph soon dis- 
tanced him, and he heard the wretch stop and fall 
to cursing. This sad and fearful encounter made 
Ralph sick at heart ; but he strove to think God 
for another danger escaped, and hastened on. 



314 THE SNAKE, THE LEPER, ETC. 

Gradually he became aware by various signs that 
he was approaching some inhabited place ; all at 
once he came upon a fair house in a piece of open 
ground, that looked to him at first so like the house 
of the treasure, that he thought he had come back 
to it. But when he looked more closely upon it, 
he saw that it was not the same ; it was somewhat 
more meanly built, and had not the grave and solid 
air that the other had ; presently he heard a sound 
of music, like a concert of lutes and trumpets, which 
came from the house, and when it ceased there was 
clapping of hands. 

While he doubted whether to draw near, he saw 
that the door was opened, and a man, richty dressed 
and of noble appearance, came out upon the space 
in front of the house. He looked about him with 
a grave and serene air, like a prince awaiting guests. 
And his eyes falling upon Ralph, he beckoned him 
to draw near. Ralph at first hesitated. But it 
seemed to him an unkindly thing to turn his back 
upon this gallant gentleman who stood there smil- 
ing ; so he drew near. And then the other asked 
him whither he was bound. Ralph hardly knew 
what to reply to this, but the gentleman awaited not 
his answer, but said that this was a day of festival, 
and all were welcome, and he would have him 
come in and abide with them. Ralph excused 
himself, but the gentleman smiled and said, " I 
know, sir, that you are bound upon a journey, as 
many are that pass this way ; but you carry no 
burden with you, as is the wont of others." And 
then Ralph, with a start of surprise and anguish, 
remembered that he had left his coffer on the seat 



THE SNAKE, THE LEPER, ETC. 315 

where he had seen the Snake. He explained his 
loss to the gentleman, who laughed and said that 
this was easily mended, for he would send himself 
a servant to fetch it. And then he asked whether 
he had been in any peril, and when Ralph told him, 
he nodded his head gravely, and said it was a great 
danger escaped. And then Ralph told him of the 
Leper, at which the gentleman grew grave, and 
said that it was v/ell he had not stopped to speak 
with him, for the contagion of that leprosy was 
sore and sudden. And then he added, " But while 
I send to recover your coffer, you will enter and 
sit with us ; you look weary, and you shall eat of 
our meat, for it is good meat that strengtheneth ; 
but wine," he said, " I will not offer you, though 
I have it here in abundance, for it weakeneth the 
knees of those that walk on a journey ; but you 
shall dehght your heart with music, such as the 
angels love, and set forth upon your way rejoicing ; 
for indeed it is not late." 

And so Ralph was persuaded, and they drew 
near to the door. Then the gentleman stood aside 
to let Ralph enter ; and Ralph saw within a hall 
with people feasting, and minstrels in a gallery ; 
but just as he set foot upon the threshold he turned ; 
for it seemed that he was plucked by a hand ; and 
he saw the gentleman, with the smile all faded 
from his face, and his robe had shifted from Ms 
side ; and Ralph saw that his side was swollen and 
bandaged, and then his eye fell upon the gentle- 
man's knee, which was bare, and it was all scurfed 
and scarred. And he knew that he was in the 
hands of the Leper himself. . . 



3i6 THE SNAKE, THE LEPER, ETC. 

He drew back with a shudder, but the gentleman 
gathered his robe about him, and said with a sudden 
sternness, " Nay, it were discourteous to draw back 
now ; and indeed I will compel you to come in." 
Then Ralph knew that he was betrayed ; but he 
bethought him of the little star that he carried 
with him, and he took it out and held it before 
him, and said, " Here is a token that I may not 
halt." And at that the gentleman's face became 
evil, and he gnashed with his teeth, and moved 
towards him, as though to seize him. But Ralph 
saw that he feared the star. So he went backwards 
holding it forth ; and as the Leper pressed upon 
him, he touched him with the star ; and at that 
the Leper cried aloud, and ran within the house ; 
and there came forth a waft of doleful music like 
a dirge for the dead. 

Then Ralph went into the wood and stood there 
awhile in dreadful thought ; but it came into his 
mind that there could be no turning back, and that 
he must leave his precious coffer behind, *' and 
perhaps," he thought, " the Wise Man will let me 
adventure again." So he went on with a sad and 
sober heart, but he thanked God as he went for 
another danger hardly escaped. 

And it grew darker now ; so dark that he often 
turned aside among the trees ; till at last he came 
out on the edge of the forest, and knew that he was 
near the end. In front of him rose a wide hillside, 
the top of which was among the clouds ; and he 
could see the track faintly glimmering upwards 
through the grass ; the forest lay like a black wall 
behind him, and he was now deathly weary of his 



THE SNAKE, THE LEPER, ETC. 317 

journey, and could but push one foot before the 
other. 

But for all his weariness he felt that it grew 
colder as he went higher ; he gathered his cloak 
around him, but the cold began to pierce his veins ; 
so that he knew that he was coming to the Grey 
Frost, and how to escape from it he knew not. 
The grass grew crisp with frost, and the tall thistles 
that grew there snapped as he touched them. By 
the track there rose in several places tall tussocks 
of grass, and happening to pass close by one of these, 
he saw something gleam white amid the grass ; so 
he looked closer upon it, and then his heart grew 
cold within him, for he saw that the grass grew thick 
out of the bones of a skeleton, through the white 
ribs and out of the sightless eyes. And he saw that 
each of the tussocks marked the grave of a man. 

Then he came higher still, and the ground felt 
like iron below his feet ; and over him came a 
dreadful drowsiness, till his only thought was to 
he down and sleep ; his breath came out like a 
white cloud and hung round him, and yet he saw 
the hill rising in front. Then he marked some- 
thing lie beside the track ; and he saw that it was 
a man down upon his face, wrapped in a cloak. 
He tried to lift him up, but the body seemed stiff 
and cold, and the face was frozen to the ground ; 
and when he raised it the dirt was all hard upon 
the face. So he left it Ijdng and went on. At 
last he could go no farther ; all was grey and still 
round him, covered with a bleak hoar-frost. To 
left and right he saw figures lying, grey and frozen, 
so that the place was like a battlefield ; and still 



31 8 THE SNAKE, THE LEPER, ETC. 

the mountain towered up pitilessly in front ; he 
sank upon his knees and tried to think, but his 
brain was all benumbed. Then he put liis face to 
the ground, and his breath made a kind of warmth 
about him, while the cold ate into his limbs ; but 
as he lay he heard a groan, and looking up he saw 
a figure that lay close to the track rise upon its 
knees and sink down again. 

So Ralph struggled again to his feet with the 
thought that if he must die he would like to die 
near another man ; and he came up to the figure ; 
and he saw that it was a boy, younger than him- 
self, wrapped in a cloak. His hat had fallen off, 
and he could see his curls all frosted over a cheek 
that was smooth and blue with cold. By his side 
lay a little coffer and a staff, like his own. And 
Ralph, speaking with difficulty through frozen lips, 
said, " And what do you here ? You are too young 
to be here." The other turned his face upon him, 
all drawn with anguish, and said, *' Help me, help 
me ; I have lost my way." And Ralph sate down 
beside him and gathered the boy's body into his 
arms ; and it seemed as though the warmth revived 
him, for the boy looked gratefully at him and said, 
** So I am not alone in this dreadful place." 

Then Ralph said to him that there was no time 
to be lost, and that they were near their end. " But 
it seems to me," he added, " that a little farther 
up the grass looks greener, as if the cold were not 
so bitter there ; let us try to help each other a few 
paces farther, if we may avoid '^death for a little." 
So they rose slowly and painfully, and now Ralph 
would lead the boy a step or two on ; and then 



THE SNAKE, THE LEPER, ETC. 319 

he would lean upon the boy, who seemed to grow 
stronger, for a pace or two ; till suddenly it came 
into Ralph's mind that the cold was certainly less ; 
and so Uke two dying men the}^ struggled on, step 
by step, until the ground grew softer under their 
feet and the grass darker, and then, looking round, 
Ralph could see the circle of the Grey Frost below 
them, all white and hoary in the uncertain light. 

Presently they struggled out on to a ridge of the 
long hill ; and here they rested on their staves, 
and talked for a moment Hke old friends ; and the 
boy showed Ralph his coffer, and said, " But you 
have none ? " And Ralph shook his head and said, 
" Nay, I left it on the seat of the Snake." And then 
Ralph asked him of the Leper's house, and the boy 
told him that he had seen it indeed, but had feared 
and made a circuit in the wood, and that he had 
there seen a fearful sight ; for at the back of the 
Leper's house was a cage, like a kennel of hounds, 
and in it sate a score of wretched men with their 
eyes upon the ground, who had wandered from 
the way ; and that he had heard a barking of dogs, 
and men had come out from the house, but that 
he had fled through the woods. 

While they thus talked together, Ralph saw 
that hard by them was a rock, and in the rock a 
hole Hke a cave ; so he said to the boy, " Let us 
stand awhile out of the wind ; and then will we 
set out again." So the boy consented ; and they 
came to the cave ; but Ralph wondered exceed- 
ingly to see a door set in the rock-face ; and he put 
out his hand and pulled the door ; and it opened ; 
and a voice from within called him by name. 



320 THE SNAKE, THE LEPER, ETC. 

Then in a moment Ralph saw that he was in the 
house of the Wise Man, who sate in his chair, re- 
garding him with a smile, like a father welcoming 
a son. All seemed the same ; and it was very 
grateful to Ralph to see the sun warm on the ceiling, 
and to smell the honeyed air that came in from the 
garden. 

Then he went forward, and fell on his knees 
and laid the staff and the star down, and would 
have told the Wise Man his tale ; but the Wise 
Man said, " Went not my heart with thee, my 
son ? " 

Then Ralph told him how he had left his treasure, 
expecting to be chidden. But the Wise Man said, 
" Heed it not, for thou hast a better treasure in 
thy heart." 

Then Ralph remembered that he had left his 
companion outside, and asked if he might bring 
him in ; but the Wise Man said, " Nay, he has 
entered by another way." And presently he bade 
Ralph return home in peace, and blessed him in 
a form of words which Ralph could not afterwards 
remember, but it sounded very sweet. And Ralph 
asked whether he might come again, but the Wise 
Man said, '' Nay, my son." 

Then Ralph went home in wonder ; and though 
the journey had seemed very long, he found that 
it was still morning in Birnewood. 

Then he returned to the Parsonage ; and the 
next day Father John returned, and told him 
that the lands would be restored to him ; and as 
they talked, Father John said, " My son, what new 
thing has come to you ? for there is a light in your 



THE SNAKE, THE LEPER, ETC. 321 

eye that was not lit before." But Ralph could not 
tell him. 

So Ralph became a great knight, and did worthily ; 
and in his hall there hang three pictures in one frame ; 
to the left is a little green snake on a stone bench ; 
to the right a leprous man richly clad ; and in the 
centre a grey mist, with a figure down on its face. 
And some folk ask Ralph to explain the picture, 
and he smiles and says it is a vision ; but others 
look at the picture in a strange wonder, and then 
look in Ralph's face, and he knows that the}^ under- 
stand, and that they too have been to the Country 
of Dreams. 



X 



BROTHER ROBERT 

The castle of Tremontes stcxnds in a wood^of oaks, 
a little way off the high-road ; it takes its name from 
the three mounds that rise in the castle yard, covered 
now with turf and daisies, but piled together within 
of stones, which cover, so the legend says, the bodies 
of three Danish knights killed in a skirmish long 
ago ; the river that runs in the creek beside the 
castle is joined to the sea but a little below, and 
the tide comes up to Tremontes ; when the sea 
is out, there are bare and evil-smelling mudbanks, 
with a trickle of brackish water in the midst. But 
at the time of which I write, the channel was deeper, 
and little ships with brown sails could be seen run- 
ning before the wind among the meadows, to dis- 
charge their cargoes at the water-gate of the castle. 
It was a strong place with its leaded roofs and its 
tower of squared stone, very white and smooth. 
There was a moat all round the wall, full of water- 
lilies, where the golden carp could be seen basking 
on hot days ; there was a barbican with a draw- 
bridge, the chains of which rattled and groaned 
when the bridge was drawn up at sunset, and let 
down at sunrise ; the byre came up to the castle 
walls on one side ; on the other was a paved walk 
or terrace, and below, a little garden of herbs and 

sweet flowers ; within, was a hall on the ground 

322 



BROTHER ROBERT 323 

floor, with a kitchen and buttery ; above that, a 
little chapel and a solar ; above that again, a 
bower and some few bedrooms, and at the top, 
under the leads, a granary, to which the sacks 
used to be drawn up by a chain, swung from a 
projecting penthouse on the top. From the castle 
leads you could see the wide green flat, with dark 
patches of woodland, with lines of willows marking 
the streams ; here and there a church tower rose 
from the trees ; to the east a line of wolds, and to 
the south a glint of sea from the estuary. 

Inside, the castle was a sad place enough, dreary 
and neglected. Marmaduke, the Lord of Tre- 
montes, had been a great soldier in his time, but 
he had received a grievous wound in the head, 
and had been carried to Trem.ontes to die, and yet 
lingered on ; his wife had long been dead, and he 
had but one son, a boy of ten years old, Robert bj^ 
name, who was brought up roughly and evilly 
enough ; he played with the village boys, he lived 
with the half-dozen greedy and idle men-at-arms 
who loitered in the castle, grumbling at their lack 
of employment, and killing the time with drinking 
and foolish games and gross talk. There was an 
old chaplain in the house, a lazy and gluttonous 
priest, who knew enough of his trade to mumble 
his mass, and no more ; women there were none, 
except an old waiting- woman, a silent faithful 
soul, who loved the boy and petted him, and mourned 
in secret over his miserable upbringing, but who, 
having no store of words to tell her thoughts, 
could only be dumbly kind to him, and careful 
of his childish hurts and ailments ; the boy ate 



324 BROTHER ROBERT 

and drank with the men, and aped their swagger- 
ing and blasphemous ways, which made them laugh 
and praise his cunning. The Lord Marmaduke 
had been nursed back into a sort of poor life, and 
sate all day in a fur gown in the solar, with a velvet 
cap on his head to hide his wound, which broke 
out afresh in the month of May, when he had been 
wounded ; when he was in ill case, he sate silent 
and frowning, beating his hands on the table ; 
when he was w^ell he muttered to himself, and 
laughed at Heaven knows what cheerful thoughts, 
and would sing in a broken voice, fifty times on 
end, a verse of a foul song ; and he would suddenly 
smite those that tended him, and laugh ; some- 
times he v/ould wander into the chapel, and kneel 
peeping through his fingers ; and sometimes he 
would go and stroke his armour, which lay where 
he had put it off, and cry. The only thing he 
cared for was to have his keys beside him, and he 
would tell them one by one, and curse if he could not 
tell them right. And so the days dragged slowly 
by. He cared nothing for his son, who never 
entered the solar except for his own ends. And 
one of these was to steal away his father's keys, 
and to unlock every door in the castle ; for he was 
inquisitive and bold ; he knew the use of all the 
keys but one ; this was a small strong key, with a 
head like a quatrefoil ; and though he tried to 
fit it to every cupboard and door in the house, he 
could never find its place. 

But one day when his father was ill and lay abed, 
staring at the flies on the ceiling, the boy came to 
the solar, and slipped in behind the dusty arras 



BROTHER ROBERT 325 

that hung round the room, making believe that 
he was a rabbit in its burrow ; he went round mth 
his face to the wall, feeling with his hands ; and 
when he came to the corner of the room, the wall 
was colder to his touch, like iron ; and feeling at 
the place, he seemed to discover hinges and a door. 
So he dived beneath the arras, and then lifted it 
up ; and he saw that in the wall was a small iron 
door like a cupboard. Something in his heart 
held him back, but before he had time to listen to 
it he had opened the little door, for the keys lay on 
the table to his hand : and he was peering into a 
small dark recess of stone, which seemed, for the 
wail that the little door made on its hinges, not 
to have been opened for many years. 

In the cupboard, which had no shelves, la}^ some 
dark objects. 

The boy took out the largest, looping the arras 
up over the little door ; it was a rudely made 
spiked crowTi or coronet of iron, with odd devices 
chased upon it ; the boy replaced it and drew out 
the next ; this was a rusted iron dagger with torn 
leather on the hilt. The bo}^ did not care for this 
— there were man}/ better in the castle armoury. 
There seemed to be nothing else in the cupboard. 
But feeling Avith his hand in the dark corners, he 
drew out a stone about the size of a hen's egg 
This he thought he would take, so he locked the 
cupboard, let the arras fall, and stood awhile to 
consider. On the arras opposite him, over the door, 
was the figure of a man embroidered in green tunic 
and leggings with a hat drawn over his face and 
with a finger laid on his lip, as though he had cause 



326 BROTHER ROBERT 

to be silent, or to wish others so. The man had a 
forked beard and a kind of secret smile, as if he 
mocked the onlooker ; and he seemed unpleasantly 
natural to the bo}^ as though he di\dned his thought. 
He was half minded to put the stone back ; but 
the secrecy of the thing pleased him. Moreover as 
he held the stone to the light, it seemed half trans- 
parent, and sent out a dull red gleam. 

So the boy put the stone in his pouch, and soon 
loved it exceedingly, and desired to keep it with 
him. He often thrust it in secret places inside and 
outside the castle, in holes in a hollow^ elder tree, 
or chinks of the wall, and it pleased him when he 
la}^ in bed on wind}^ rainy nights, to think of the 
stone lying snug and warm in its small house. 
Soon he began to attribute a kind of virtue to the 
thing ; he thought that events went better when he 
had it with him ; and he named it in his mind 
The Wound, because it seemed to him like the 
red and jewelled wound in the side of the figure of 
Our Saviour that hung in coloured glass over the 
chapel altar. 

One da}^ he had a terrible shock ; he was lying 
on the terrace, spinning the stone, and watching 
the little whirling gleams of red hght it made on 
the flags, when a man-at-arms stole upon him, 
and in wantonness seized the stone, and flung it 
far into the moat, where it fell with a splash. The 
boy was angry and smote the man upon the face 
with all his might, and was sorely beaten for it — 
for they had no respect for the heir, and indeed 
there was no one to whom he could comiplain — 
but he held his peace ; and a week after the stone 



BROTHER ROBERT 327 

was restored to him in a way that seemed miracu- 
lous ; for they ran the water of the moat off, to 
mend the sluice, so that the water-lilies sank in 
tangles to the bottom and the carp flapped in the 
mud ; but the boy found the stone lying on the 
pavement of the sluice. 

But the fancy for the stone soon came to an end, 
as a boy's fancies will ; and he carried it with him, 
or put it into one of his hiding-places and thought no 
more of The Wound. 

Suddenly the peaceful, idle and evil life came to a 
close. One day he had heard the tinkle of the 
sacring bell in the chapel, and had slipped in and 
found the priest at mass — the boy had a curious 
love for the mass ; he liked to see the quaint move- 
ments of the priest in his embroidered robe, and a 
sort of peace settled upon his spirit — and this day 
he knelt near the screen and sniffed the incense, 
when he heard a sound behind him, and turning, 
saw a man booted and cloaked as though from a 
journey, standing in the door with a paper in his 
hand, beckoning him. Even as he rose and went 
out, it came into his mind that this was in some 
w^ay a summons for him ; the letter was from liis 
mother's brother, the Lord Ralph of Parbury, a 
noble knight ; he had been long away fighting in 
many wars, but on his return heard tell of the 
illness of Marmaduke, and wTote to bid him send 
his son to him, and he would train him for a soldier. 
They had great ado to read the letter, and there 
was much putting of heads together over it ; but 
the messenger knew the purport, and the boy made 
up his mind to go, for he felt, he had said to him- 



328 BROTHER ROBERT 

self, like one of the silly and lazy carp sweltering 
in the castle moat ; so he dressed himself in his 
best and went. The men-at-arms were sorry to 
see their playmate go, though they had done him 
little but evil ; and the old priest, half in tears, 
brought a small book and gave it to the boy ; the 
old nurse clung to him and cried bitterly ; but the 
boy felt nothing but a kind of shame at the thought 
how glad he was to go ; indeed he would hardy 
have gone to wish farewell to his father, who was 
in one of liis fits, and lay muttering on his bed ; 
but the boy went, and, the door being ajar, he 
looked in and saw him, pale and fat, gibbering at 
his fingers, and almost hated him. And so he 
mounted and rode away, on a hot still summer 
afternoon, and was glad to see the castle tower 
sink down among the oaks, as they rode by green 
tracks and open heaths, little by little into the 
unknown land to the south. 

The years flew fast away with the Lord Ralph ; 
and Robert learnt to be a noble knight. It was 
hard at first to change from the old sluggish life, 
when he had none but himself to please ; but 
somiething caught fire wdthin Robert's soul, and 
he submitted willingly and eagerly to the discipline 
of Parbury, which was severe. He grew up strong 
and straight and fearless, and worthy of fame, so 
that Ralph was proud of his nephew ; two things 
alone made him anxious • Robert was, he thought, 
too desirous of praise, too much bent upon excelling 
others, though Ralph tried to make him learn that 
it is the doing of noble things in a noble way, for 
the love of the deed done, and for the honour of 



BROTHER ROBERT 329 

it, that makes a worthy knight — and not the 
desire to be held worthy. Moreover, Robert 
had but little chivalry or tenderness of spirit ; he 
was not cruel, for he disdained it ; but he was 
hard, and despised weakness and grace ; cared 
not for cliild, or even horse or hound, and held 
the love of women in contempt, saying that a 
soldier should have no time to marry until he was 
old and spent ; and that then it was too late. It 
even made Ralph sorry that Robert had no love 
for Tremontes or for his father, or for any of those 
whom he had left behind ; for a knight's face, 
said Ralph, should be set forward in gladness, 
but he should look backward in love and recollec- 
tion. But Robert understood nothing of such 
talk ; or cared not ; and indeed there was little 
to blame in him ; for he was courteous and easy 
in peace ; and he was strong and valiant and 
joyful in war. He made no friend, but he was 
admired b}' many and feared b}^ some. 

Then, when Robert was within a few days of 
twenty-five, came a messenger, an old and gross 
man-at-arms with rusty armour, riding on a broken 
horse ; he was one of the merry comrades of Robert's 
childhood ; but Robert seemed hardly to know 
him, though he acknowledged his greeting cour- 
teously, and stayed not to talk, but opened the 
letter he had brought, and read gravely ; and 
when he had read he said to the messenger, " So 
my lord is dead." And the messenger would have 
babbled about the end that the Lord Marmaduke 
had made, which indeed had been a bitter one, but 
Robert cut him short, and asked him a plain ques- 



330 BROTHER ROBERT 

tion or two about affairs, and frowned at his stum- 
bling answers ; and then Robert went to his uncle, 
and after due obeisance said, " Sir, my father, it 
seems, is dead, and with your leave I must ride to 
Tremontes and take my inheritance." And the 
Lord Ralph, seeing no sign of sorrow, said, " Your 
father was a great knight." " Ay, once," said 
Robert, " doubtless, but as I knew him more tree 
than man." And presently he took horse and rode 
all night to Tremontes ; and when the old man-at- 
arms would have ridden beside him, and reminded 
him with a poor smile of some passages of his child- 
hood, Robert said sourly, " Man, I hate my child- 
hood, and v/ill hear no word of it ; and you and 
3^our fellow-knaves treated me ill ; and your kind- 
ness was worse than your anger. Ride behind me." 

So they rode sadly enough, until at evening, with 
a great red sunset glowing in the west, and smoul- 
dering behind the tree- trunks, he saw the dark 
tower of Tremontes looking solemnly out above 
the oaks. Then the man-at-arms asked humbly 
that he might ride forward and announce the new 
lord's coming ; but Robert forbade him, and rode 
alone into the court. 

He gave his horse to the man-at-arms and walked 
into the house ; in the hall he found a drunken 
company and much ugly mirth. He surveyed the 
scene awhile in disgust, for they cried out at first 
for him to join them, till it came upon them who 
it was that looked upon them ; so they stumbled 
to their feet and did him obeisance, and slunk out 
one by one upon some pretence of business, leaving 
him alone with the old priest, who was heavier and 



BROTHER ROBERT 331 

grosser than before. But he had his wits as well 
as he ever had, and would have told Robert how 
his father had made a blessed end, with holy oil 
and sacraments and all due comfort of Mother 
Church, but Robert cut him short ; and after a 
lonely meal in the great hall, turned to look at such 
few parchments that there were in the house, and 
sent for the steward to see how his inheritance 
stood. It was a miserable tale he had to tell of 
neglect and thriftlessness ; and Robert said very 
soon that he could only hope to save his estate by 
living poorly and giving diligence — and that he 
had no mind to do ; so he resolved that if he could 
find a purchaser, he would sell the home of his 
fathers, and himself set out into the world he loved, 
to carve out a fortune, if he might, with his sword. 
Among the parchments was one that was closely 
sealed ; it bore a date before his birth ; he read it 
at first listlessly enough, but presently he caught 
sight of words that made his heart beat faster. It 
seemed from the script that his father, as a young 
man, had served for awhile with a great Duke of 
Spain, the prince of a little kingdom, and that he 
had even saved his life in battle, and would have 
been promoted to high honour, but that he had 
been recalled home to take his inheritance ; but 
the Duke, so said the writing, had given him the 
iron crown and dagger that the Lord of the Marches 
wore, and with them the great ruby of the duke- 
dom, that v/as worth a king's ransom. And the 
parchment said that it was pledged by the Duke, by 
all the most sacred relics of Spain, bones of saints 
and wood of the True Cross, that should he or any 



332 BROTHER ROBERT 

of his heirs come before the Duke with these tokens, 
the Duke would promote him to chief honour. 

Here then was the secret of the iron door and 
his father's constant fingering of the keys ; and 
this was the plaything of his youth, The Wound, 
as he had called it. Robert bowed his head upon 
his hands and tried to recollect where he had thrust 
it last ; but though he thought of a score of hiding- 
places where it might be, he could not remember 
where it certainly lay. Could he have thrown 
away by his childish folly a thing which would 
give him, if he cared to claim it, high honour and 
great place ? — and if he cared not to claim that 
boon, but only sold the jev/el, Vv^hich was undoubtedly 
his own, he might be a great lord, among the 
wealthiest in the land. 

Robert sate long in thought in the silent solar, with 
a candle burning beside him ; once or twice his 
old nurse came in upon him, and longed to kiss him 
and clasp her child close ; but he looked coldly 
upon her and seemed hardly to remember her. 

At last the day began to brighten in the east ; 
and Robert cast himself for awhile upon his father's 
bed to sleep, and slept a broken sleep. In the 
morning he first went to the cupboard and found 
the crown and dagger as he had left them ; but 
though he searched high and lov/ for the jewel, he 
could not find it in any of the secret places where 
he used to lay it ; and at last he took the crown 
and dagger in despair, turned adrift the men-at- 
arms, and left none but the old nurse in the house. 
The priest asked for some gift or pension that 
would not leave him destitute, but Robert said, 



BROTHER ROBERT 333 

" Go to, you have lived in gluttony and sloth all 
the years at the expense of my estate ; and now 
that you have nearly beggared me, you ask for more 
— you are near your end ; live cleanly and wisely 
for a few years, ere you depart to your own place." 

" Nay," said the priest whimpering, and with a 
miserable smile, " but I am old, and it is hard to 
change." 

"So said the carp," quoth Robert with a hard 
smile, " when they dangled him up with a line out 
of the moat. Change and adventure are meet for 
all men. And I look that I do a good deed, when 
I restore a recreant shepherd to the fold." The 
priest went off, crying unworthy tears and cursing 
the new lord, to try and find a priest's office if he 
could ; and Robert rode grimly away, back to his 
uncle, and told him all the tale. 

His uncle sate long in thought, and then said that 
his resolve to sell the castle of Tremontes and the 
estate was, he believed, a wise one ; and it should 
be his care to find a purchaser. " I myself," he 
said, " have none nearer than yourself to whom to 
leave my lands ; " and then he advised Robert, if 
he would try his fortune, to take the crown and 
dagger, and to seek out the Duke or his heir, and 
to tell him the whole story, and hov/ the precious 
jewel was lost. 

So Robert rode away to London ; and his uncle 
was sad to see him go so stonily and sullenly, with 
a mind so bent upon himself, and, it seemed, with- 
out love for a living thing ; and as Robert rode 
he pondered ; and it seemed to him a useless quest, 
because he thought that the giving back of the jewel 



334 BROTHER ROBERT 

was part of the terms, and that the Duke would 
not promote a man who brought him nothing but 
a memory of old deeds ; and moreover, he thought 
that the Duke would not believe the story, but 
would think that he had the jewel safe at home, 
and wished to gain fortune in Spain, and keep the 
wealth as well. And as he rode into London, it 
seemed to him as though some wise power put it 
into his heart what he should do ; for he rode by 
the sign of a maker of rich glass for church windows ; 
and at once a thought darted into his mind ; and 
going in, he sought out the master of the shop, 
and told him that he had lost a jewel from a crown, 
a jewel of price, and that he was ashamed that the 
crown should lack it ; and he asked if he could make 
him a jewel of glass to set in its place ; and he 
described the jewel, how large it was and how dull 
outside, and its fiery heart ; and the craftsman 
smiled shrewdly and foxily, and told him to return 
on the third day, and he should have his will. On 
the third day he came again ; and the craftsman, 
opening a box, took from it a jewel so like The 
Wound, that he thought for a moment that he 
must have recovered it ; so he paid a mighty price 
for it, and set off light-hearted for Spain. 

After weary wandering, and many strange adven- 
tures by sea and land, he rode one day to the Duke's 
palace gate. It was a great bare house of stone, 
within a wall, at the end of a little town. It was 
far larger and greater than he had dreamed ; he 
was stayed at the gate, for he knew as yet but a 
few words of the language ; but he had written 
on a parchment who he was, and that he desired 



BROTHER ROBERT 335 

to see the Duke. And presently there came out a 
seneschal in haste, and he was led within honour- 
ably, and soon he was had into a small room, richly 
furnished. He was left alone, and the seneschal 
showed him through which door the Duke would 
come. 

Presently a door opened, and there came in an 
old shrunken man, in a furred gown, very stately 
and noble, holding the paper in his hand. Robert 
did obeisance, but the Duke raised him, and spoke 
courteously to him in the English tongue, and 
desired to see his tokens. 

Then Robert brought forth the crown and the 
dagger and the jewel, and the Duke looked at them 
in silence for awhile, shading his eyes. And then 
he praised the Lord Marmaduke very nobly, saying 
that he owed his life to him. And then he told 
Robert that he would be true to his word, and 
promote him to honour ; but he said that first he 
must abide with him many days, and go in and 
out with his knights, and learn the Spanish tongue 
and the Spanish way of life ; so Robert abode with 
him in great content, and was treated with honour 
by all, but especially by the Duke, who often sent 
for him and spoke much of former days. 

Then at last there came a day when the Duke 
sent for him and in the presence of all his lords told 
them the story and passed the crown and the dagger 
and the jewel from hand to hand ; and the lords 
eyed the stone curiously and handled it tenderly ; 
and then the Duke said that the knight who could, 
for the sake of honour, restore a jewel that could 
buy a county — there was not the like of it in the 



336 BROTHER ROBERT 

world, save in the Emperor's crown — was a true 
knight indeed ; and therefore he made Robert 
Lord of the Marches, put the crown on his head, 
and a purple robe with a cape of miniver on his 
shoulders, and commanded that he should be used 
by all as if of royal birth. 

The greatness of his reward was a surprise to 
Robert, and he had it in his heart to tell the Duke 
the truth. But the lords passed before him and 
did obeisance, and he put the good hour aside. 

Very soon Robert set out for the Castle of the 
Marches ; and he found it a marvellous house, fit 
for a king, with wide lands. And there he abode 
for several years, and did worthily ; for he was an 
excellent knight, and a prudent general ; moreover 
he was just and kind ; and the people feared and 
obeyed his rule, arid lived in peace, though none 
loved Robert ; but he made the land prosperous 
and great, and cleared it of robbers, and raised a 
mighty revenue for the Duke, who praised him 
and made him great presents. 

One day he heard that the Duke was ill ; the 
next a courier came in haste to summon him to the 
Duke's presence ; he wondered at this ; but went 
with a great retinue. He found the Duke feeble 
and bent, but with a bright eye ; he kissed Robert, 
like a brother prince, and as they sate alone he 
opened his heart to him and told him that he had 
done worthily ; he had none of his kin, or none fit 
to hold his dukedom after him ; but that all he 
desired was that his people should be well ruled, 
and that he had determined that Robert should 
succeed him. " There will be envious and grasping 



BROTHER ROBERT 337 

hands," he said, " held out — ^but you are strong 
and wise, and the people will be content to be 
ruled by you," and then he showed him a paper 
that made him a prince in title, and that gave him 
the Dukedom on his own death. 

Now there lived in the Duke's house a wise and 
learned man named Paul, an alchemist, who knew 
the courses of the stars and the virtues of plants, 
and many other secret things ; and the Duke 
delighted much in his conversation, which was 
ingenious and learned. But Robert heard him 
vacantly, thinking that such studies were fit only 
for children. And Paul being old and gentle, loved 
not Robert, but held that the Duke trusted him 
overmxuch. And one night, when Robert and other 
lords were sitting with the Duke, Paul being present, 
the talk turned on the virtues of gems ; and Paul, 
as if making an effort that he had long prepared 
for, told the Duke of a curious liquor, an aqua 
fortis, that he had distilled, which was a marvellous 
thing to test the worth of gems, and would tell the 
true from the false ; and the Duke bade him bring 
the liquor and show him how the spirit worked. 
And it seemed to Robert that, as Paul spoke, a 
shadowy hand came from the darkness and clutched 
at his heart, enveloping him in blackness, so that 
he sate in a cold dream. And Paul went out, and 
presently returned bringing a small phial of gold — 
for the hquor, he said, would eat its way through 
any baser metal — and in the other hand a little 
dish of gems. Some of them, he said, were true 
gem.s, others of them less precious, and others 
naught but sparkling glass ; and he poured a drop 

Y 



338 BROTHER ROBERT 

on each ; the true gems sparkled unhurt in the 
clear liquid, the less precious threw off little flakes 
of impurity, and the glass hissed and melted in the 
potent venom. And Robert, contrary to his wont, 
came and stood, sick at heart, feeling the old man's 
eyes fixed on him with a steady gaze. At last Paul 
said, " The Prince Robert " — ^for the Duke had 
told the lords of the honour he had given him — 
" seems to wonder more than his wont at these 
simple toys and tricks ; shall not the Duke let us 
test the great ruby, that its worth may be the 
better proven ? perhaps too it has some small 
impurity to be purged away, and will shine 
more bravely, like a noble heart under afflic- 
tion." And the Duke said, " Yes, let the ruby be 
brought." 

So the lord that had the charge of the Duke's 
jewels brought a casket, and there in its place lay 
the great ruby, red as blood. And Robert would 
have spoken, but the words died upon his tongue, 
and he saw the shadow of the end. 

Then Paul took the ruby and laid it on liis dish ; 
and as he raised the phial to pour, he looked at 
Robert, and said. " But perhaps it is shame to treat 
so great a gem so discourteously ? " And the 
Duke being old and curious said, " Nay, but pour." 
But then, as Paul raised the phial, the Duke lifted 
liis hand, and said very pleasantly, " Yet after all, 
I hold not the jewel my own, but the Lord Robert's, 
who hath so faithfully restored it to me. What 
will you, my lord ? " he said, turning with a smile 
to Robert. And Robert, looking and smiling very 
stonily, said, in a voice that he could scarcely com- 



BROTHER ROBERT 339 

mand, " Pour, sir, pour ! " So Paul poured the 
liquor. 

The great ruby flashed for a moment, and then a 
thin white steam floated up, while the gem rose in 
a blood-stained foam, hissing and bubbling. Then 
there was a silence ; and then Robert put his hand 
to his heart and stood still ; the Duke looked at 
him, and Paul said in his ear, " Now, Lord Robert, 
play the man ! — I knew the secret." 

Then Robert rising from his place said that he 
would ask the Duke's leave to speak to him in 
private on this matter, and the Duke, coldly but 
courteously, led the way into an inner room, and 
there Robert told him all the story. Perhaps a 
younger man might have been more ready to for- 
give ; but the Duke was old ; and when Robert 
had done the story, he sate looking so aged and 
broken, that a kind of pity came into Robert's 
mind, and crushed the pity he felt for himself. 
But at last the Duke spoke. " You have deceived 
me," he said, " and I do not know that I can even 
think that your story is true ; you can serve me 
no longer, for you have done unworthity." And 
with that he tore the parchment across, and dropped 
it on the ground, and then made a gesture of dis- 
missal ; and Robert rose, hoping that the Duke 
would 3Tt relent, and said at last, " May I hope 
that your Grace can say that you forgive me ? I 
do not ask to be restored — ^but in all other things 
I have served you well." " No, my Lord Robert," 
said the Duke at last coldly and severely, " I 
cannot forgive ; for I have trusted one who has 
deceived me." 



340 BROTHER ROBERT 

So Robert went slowly out of the room through 
the hall ; and no man spoke to him and he spoke 
to none. Only Paul came to join him, and looked 
at him awhile, and then said, " Lord Robert, I have 
been the means of inflicting a heavy blow upon 
you ; but it was not I who struck, but God, to 
whom I think you give no allegiance." And 
Robert said, " Nay, Sir Paul, trouble not yourself ; 
you have done as a faithful servant of the Duke 
should do to a faithless servant ; I bear you no 
malice ; as you say, it is not you who strike." 

Then the old man said, " Believe me, Lord 
Robert, that the day will come, and I think it is 
not far distant, when you will be grateful to the 
stroke which, at the cost of grievous pain to your- 
self, has revealed your soul to yourself. All men 
know the worst that can be known of you ; the cup 
is emptied to the dregs ; it is for you to fill it." 
Then he put out his hand, and Robert grasped it, 
and went out into the world alone. That night 
he sent a courier to his castle to say that he v/ould 
return no more, and that all things were the Duke's ; 
and he sent back to the Duke, by a private mes- 
senger, the crown and the dagger ; and the Duke 
mourned over the loss of his trusty servant, but 
could not forgive him nor hear him spoken of. 

Robert only kept for himself the sum of gold 
with which he had come to the Duke's court ; and 
he travelled into France, for he knew that he would 
find fighting there, and took service in the army of 
Burgundy ; he was surprised within himself to find 
how little he cared for the loss of his greatness ; 
indeed he felt that a certain secret heaviness and 



BROTHER ROBERT 341 

blackness of spirit had left him, and that he was 
almost light-hearted ; but in one of the first battles 
he fought in he was stricken from his horse, and 
trampled under foot. And they took him for 
tendance to a monastery near the field ; and in a 
few weeks, when he came slowly back to life, he 
knew that he could fight no more. 

Then indeed he fell into a great despair and 
darkness of spirit. It seemed as though some 
cruel and secret enemy had struck him blow after 
blow, and not content with visiting him with shame, 
had rent from him all that made him even Vv^ish to 
live. But in the monastery lived a wise old monk, 
with whom he had much talk, and in his weakness 
told him all his life and his fall. And one day the 
two sate together in the cloister, on a day in spring, 
while a bird sang very blithely in a bush that was 
all pricked Vv^ith green points and shoots. And the 
old monk said, " This is a strange tale. Lord Robert, 
that you have told me ; and the wonder grows as 
I think of it ; but it seems to me that God has led 
you in a wonderful manner ; He made you strong 
and bold and self-sufficient ; and then He has 
taken these things from you, not gently, because 
you were strong to bear, but very sternly ; He has 
led you through deep v/aters and yet you live ; 
and He will set you upon the rock that is higher, 
so that you may serve Him yet." 

And then it seemed, in a silence made beautiful 
by the sweet piping of the bird, that a little flower 
rose and blossomed in Robert's soul ; he saw, in 
a sudden way that cannot be told in words, that he 
was indeed in stronger hands than his own ; and 



342 BROTHER ROBERT 

there came into his mind that in following after 
strong things, he had missed the thing that was 
stronger than all — Love, that holds the world in 
his grasp. 

So it came to pass that the Lord Robert became 
the thing that he had most despised — a monk. 
And he found here that his courage, which he had 
thought the strongest thing he had, was yet hardly 
strong enough to bear the doing of mean and sordid 
tasks, such as a monk must often do ; but it became 
to him a kind of fierce pleasure to trample on 
himself, and to do humbly and severely all menial 
things. He swept the church, he dug in the garden, 
he fetched and carried burdens, and spared himself 
in nothing. 

But after a time he fell ill ; he missed, no doubt, 
the old activities of life ; his days had been full 
of business and occupation, and though he did not 
look back — indeed a deep trench seemed to have 
been dug across his life, and he saw himself across 
it like a different man, and he could often hardly 
believe that he was the same — yet it seemed as 
though some spring had been broken in his spirit. 
He fell into long sad musings, and waters of bitter- 
ness flowed across his soul. The monks thought 
that he would die, he became so wan and ghost- 
like ; but he never failed in his duty, and though 
his life stretched before him like a weary road, he 
knew that it would be long before he reached the 
end, and that he had many leagues yet to traverse, 
before the night fell cold on the hills. 

Now, there was business to be done for the House 
in England, and Robert was sent there, the Prior 



BROTHER ROBERT 343 

hoping that the change and stir might hghten the 
load upon his spirit. 

It happened at last that he found himself, in the 
course of his journeyings, not far from Tremontes. 
His uncle, the Lord Ralph, he heard, was dead, 
and his lands had gone to the nearest of his kin. 
He knew nothing of what had befallen Tremontes, 
but he made enquiries, saying that he had seen 
the Lord Robert in Spain ; he found that there 
was great curiosity about him ; he was plied with 
questions, and he was forced to speak of himself, 
as in a strange dream, and to hear the story of 
his disgrace told with many wild imaginings. It 
seemed that Ralph had himself undertaken the 
care of Tremontes, and had turned it by diligence 
into a rich estate, hoping, it was said, to hand it 
over to the Lord Robert on his return ; but that 
as he had disappeared and made no sign, it was 
supposed that he had died fighting, and the Lord 
Ralph having died suddenly, Tremontes had passed 
with the rest of his estate. 

Early one summer morning Robert set off across 
the broad green flat, and trudged to Tremontes. 
The country had hardly altered, and it was with 
a strange thrill of delight that one by one the familiar 
landmarks came into view ; and at last he saw 
the castle itself over the oaks. He had learnt that 
there was a priest there as chaplain, a wise and sad 
man, to whom he bore a letter. Twenty years had 
passed since he saw the castle last, but it looked to 
his eyes no older ; the hens picked and cried in the 
byre ; the sun shone pleasantly as ever upon the 
lilied pool and the warm terrace. Robert felt no 



344 BROTHER ROBERT 

sadness, but a kind of hunger to be remembered, to 
be welcomed, to be received with loving looks. 
The porter led him in, up into the familiar hall, 
where sate a few sober men-at-arms, who rose and 
made a seemly obeisance ; and he was presently 
sitting in a little parlour that opened on the chapel, 
talking quietty to the old priest, who seemed glad 
enough to have his company. Robert told him that 
he had known Tremontes in his youth ; and after 
he had spoken of many indifferent things, he asked 
that he might withdraw for a little into the chapel, 
and say a silent pra3/er for those who were departed. 

The old priest understood him and led the way ; 
and in a moment Robert found himself seated by 
the little arcade, looking at the dim figure that 
hung in the window, where he had sate as a bo}^ 
when the messenger had come to summon him 
away. How it all came back to him ! The 3'ears 
were obliterated in a flash ; he put out his hand 
idl}^ to the arcade, where the pillars stood out from 
the wall, and his fingers touched a small dusty 
thing that lay between a pillar and the stones. It 
was hardly with surprise that he raised it, and saw 
that he held the ruby, where he had put it in that 
careless hour. 

Then there beat upon his mind a great wave of 
thought, and he saw how gentle had been the hand 
that led him, and how surely he had been guided ; 
he looked into the depth of liis soul, and saw the 
very secret counsels of God. That was an hour 
full of a strange and marvellous happiness, when he 
felt like a child leaning against a father's knee. 
He had no longer any repining or any questioning ; 



BROTHER ROBERT 345 

but he knelt, full of a mysterious peace, resigning 
himself utterly into the mighty hands of the Father. 

Presently the waning light warned him that the 
day was turning to the evening ; and he came out 
and spoke to the priest, but with such a solemn 
and tranquil radiance of mien that the priest said 
to him, " I thought, brother, when you came to me, 
that you had a strange thing to tell me ; but now 
you seem like one who has laid his very self down 
at the foot of the Cross." And Robert smiled and 
said, " I think I have." 

Presently he set off ; and a foolish fancy came 
and fluttered in his mind for a moment, that he 
ought not to come like a tliief and steal so rich a 
thing away ; till he reflected in himself that he 
had but to speak the word and the whole was his. 

The old priest had told him that the Lord of 
Tremontes, Richard, was a just man, and ruled 
the estate well and bountifully ; that he would 
have none but honest men to labour for him, and 
that he was liberal and kind. Just as Robert went 
out of the gate he met a grave man, in rich but 
sober attire, riding in, who drew aside to let the 
monk pass and put off his hat to him. Then it 
came into Robert's mind to speak to liim, and he said, 
*' Do I speak with the Lord Richard of Tremontes ? " 

" Richard of Parbury, father," said the Lord. 
" Tremontes is indeed held by me, but I have 
no lordship here. The Lord Robert of Tremontes 
may yet be living ; we know not if he be alive or 
dead ; and I but hold the estate for him and 
administer it for him ; and if he returns he will 
find it, I believe, not worse than he left it." 



346 BROTHER ROBERT 

Then Robert made up his mind and said, " Lord 
Richard, I have a message for you from the Lord 
Robert — ^but for your ears alone. I have seen him 
and know him. You have doubtless heard of his dis- 
grace and his fall ; and he \vill not return. He was 
but anxious to know that the estate was justly ruled 
and administered, and he resigns it into your hands." 

Then the Lord Richard dismounted from his 
horse, and bade the monk enter and speak with 
him at large ; but he would not. Then the Lord 
Richard said, " This is not a Hght matter, father ; 
a great estate, craving your pardon, cannot thus 
pass by word of mouth." 

'' And it shall not," said the monk, " the Lord 
Robert shall send you due quittance." 

Then the Lord Richard said, " Father, be it so, 
then ; but should the Lord Robert return and 
claim the estate, it is his." 

Then the monk said, ** He will not return ; he is 
dead to the world." And then he added, for he saw 
that the Lord Richard was pondering the matter, '' I 
that speak with you am he." Then he blessed the 
Lord Richard, and departed in haste — and so solemn 
was his face and manner, that the Lord Richard did 
not stay him, but went within in wonder and awe. 

Then Robert returned to the monastery, with a 
quiet joy in his heart ; and he made a quittance of 
the estate, and sent it secretly to the Lord Richard 
by a faithful hand ; and when the Lord Richard 
came in haste to see the monk and speak with him, 
he had departed for Spain. 

Robert journeyed many days and came at last 
again to the house of the Duke. And he was then 



BROTHER ROBERT 347 

admitted, and bidden to dinner ; so he sate in the 
hall that he knew, and no man recognised him in 
the thin and sunburnt monk that sate and spoke 
so low and courteously ; and afterwards he asked 
audience of the Duke, who still lived, but was very 
near his end ; and when he was alone with him, 
he drew out the stone and said, " My lord, your 
faithful and loving servant has found the ruby 
and herewith restores it ; and he asks your for- 
giveness, for he loves you truly ; " and Robert knelt 
beside him, and wept, but not for bitterness of heart. 

Then said the Duke, speaking low, " My son, I 
have need to be forgiven and not to forgive." And 
they had great joy together, and Robert told him 
all that was in his heart. 

"My lord," he said, "God hath led me by a 
strange path into peace ; He saw the evil strength 
of my heart, and smote me in my pride ; and He 
made me as a little child that He might receive 
me ; and I am His." 

And it came that the Duke was sick unto death ; 
and he sent for Robert, who abode in the city, and 
would have given him the stone ; but Robert said 
with a smile that he would not have it, for he had 
learnt at least the meaning of one text, that the 
price of wisdom is above rubies. And he kissed 
the hand of the Duke. 

And the Duke died and was buried ; but of 
Robert's life and death I know no more ; but in 
the High Church, near the altar, is a stone grave, 
on which are the words " Brother Robert," and 
underneath the crown of a prince. So I think he 
lies there, all of him that doth fade. 



THE CLOSED WINDOW 

The Tower of Nort stood in a deep angle of the 
downs ; formerly an old road led over the hill, 
but it is now a green track covered with turf ; the 
later highway choosing rather to cross a low saddle 
of the ridge, for the sake of the beasts of burden. 
The tower, originally built to guard the great road, 
was a plain, strong, thick-w^alled fortress. To the 
tower had been added a plain and seemly house, 
where the young Sir Mark de Nort lived very easily 
and plentifully. To the south stretched the great 
wood of Nort, but the Tower stood high on an 
elbow of the down, sheltered from the north by 
the great green hills. The villagers had an odd 
ugly name for the Tower, which they called the 
Tower of Fear ; but the name was falling into 
disuse, and was only spoken, and that heedlessly, 
by ancient men, because Sir Mark was vexed to 
hear it so called. Sir Mark was not yet thirty, and 
had begun to say that he must marry a wife ; but 
he seemed in no great haste to do so, and loved 
his easy, lonely life, with plenty of hunting and 
hawking on the down. With him lived his cousin 
and heir, Roland Ellice, a heedless good-tempered 
man, a few years older than Sir Mark ; he had come 
on a visit to Sir Mark, when he first took posses- 
sion of the Tower ; and there had seemed no reason 

348 



THE CLOSED WINDOW 349 

why he should go away ; the two suited each other ; 
Sir Mark was sparing of speech, fond of books and 
of rhymes. Roland was different, loving ease and 
wine and talk, and finding in Mark a good listener. 
Mark loved his cousin, and thought it praiseworthy 
of him to stay and help to cheer so sequestered 
a house, since there v/ere few neighbours within 
reach. 

And yet Mark was not wholly content with his 
easy life ; there were many days when he asked 
himself why he should go thus quietly on, day b}^ 
day, hke a stalled ox ; still, there appeared no 
reason why he should do otherwise ; there were 
but few folk on his land, and they were content ; 
yet he sometimes envied them their bondage and 
their round of daily duties. The only place where 
he could else have been was with the army, or even 
with the Court ; but Sir Mark was no soldier, and 
even less of a courtier ; he hated tedious gaiety, 
and it was a time of peace. So because he loved 
solitude and quiet he lived at home, and sometimes 
thought himself but half a man ; yet was he happy 
after a sort, but for a kind of little hunger of the 
heart. 

What gave the Tower so dark a name was the 
memory of old Sir James de Nort, Mark's grand- 
father, an evil and secret man, who had dwelt at 
Nort under some strange shadow ; he had driven 
his son from his doors, and lived at the end of his 
life v/ith his books and his own close thoughts, 
spying upon the stars and tracing strange figures in 
books ; since his death the old room in the turret 
top, where he came by his end in a dreadful way, 



350 THE CLOSED WINDOW 

had been closed ; it was entered by a turret-door, 
with a flight of steps from the chamber below. It 
had four windows, one to each of the winds ; but 
the window which looked upon the down was 
fastened up, and secured with a great shutter of 
oak. 

One day of heavy rain, Roland, being wearied 
of doing nothing, and vexed because Mark sat so 
still in a great chair, reading in a book, said to Ms 
cousin at last that he must go and visit the old 
room, in which he had never set foot. Mark closed 
his book, and smiling indulgently at Roland's 
restlessness, rose, stretching himself, and got the 
key ; and together they went up the turret stairs. 
The key groaned loudly in the lock, and, when the 
door was thrown back, there appeared a high faded 
room, with a timbered roof, and with a close, dull 
smell. Round the walls were presses, with the 
doors fast ; a large oak table, with a chair beside 
it, stood in the middle. The walls were otherwise 
bare and rough ; the spiders had spun busily over 
the windows and in the angles. Roland was full 
of questions, and Mark told him all he had heard 
of old Sir James and his silent wa3^s, but said that 
he knew nothing of the disgrace that had seemed to 
envelop him, or of the reasons why he had so evil 
a name. Roland said that he thought it a shame 
that so fair a room should lie so nastity, and pulled 
one of the casements open, when a sharp gust broke 
into the room, with so angry a burst of rain, that 
he closed it again in haste ; little by little, as they 
talked, a shadow began to fall upon their spirits, 
till Roland declared that there was still a blight 



THE CLOSED WINDOW 351 

upon the place ; and Mark told him of the death 
of old Sir James, who had been found after a day of 
silence, when he had not set foot outside his chamber, 
lying on the floor of the room, strangely bedabbled 
with wet and mud, as though he had come off a 
difficult journey, speechless, and with a look of 
anguish on liis face ; and that he had died soon 
after they had found him, muttering words that 
no one understood. Then the two young men 
drew near to the closed window ; the shutters were 
tightly barred, and across the panels was scrawled 
in red, in an uncertain hand, the words claudit 
ET NEMO APERIT, whicli Mark explained was the 
Latin for the text. He shutteth and none openeth. 
And then Mark said that the story went that it 
was ill for the man that opened the window, and 
that shut it should remain for him. But Roland 
girded at him for his want of curiosity, and had 
laid a hand upon the bar as though to open it, but 
Mark forbade him urgently. '* Nay," said he, 
" let it remain so — we must not meddle with the 
will of the dead I " and as he said the word, there 
came so furious a gust upon the windows that it 
seemed as though some stormy thing would beat 
them open ; so they left the room together, and 
presently descending, found the sun struggling 
through the rain. 

But both Mark and Roland were sad and silent 
all that day ; for though the}- spake not of it, 
there was a desire in their minds to open the closed 
window, and to see what would befall ; in Roland's 
mind it was like the desire of a child to peep into 
what is forbidden ; but in Mark's mind a sort of 



352 THE CLOSED WINDOW 

shame to be so bound by an old and weak tale 
of superstition. 

Now it seemed to Mark, for many days, that 
the visit to the turret-room had brought a kind of 
shadow down between them . Roland was peevish and 
ill-at-ease ; and ever the longing grew upon Mark, 
so strongly that it seemed to him that something 
drew liim to the room, some beckoning of a hand 
or calling of a voice. 

Now one bright and sunshiny morning it happened 
that Mark was left alone within the house, Roland 
had ridden out early, not saying v/here he was 
bound. And Mark sat, more listlessly than was his 
wont, and played with the ears of his great dog, 
that sat with his head upon his master's knee, 
looking at him with liquid eyes, and doubtless 
wondering why Mark went not abroad. 

Suddenly Sir Mark's eye fell upon the key of the 
upper room, which lay on the window-ledge where 
he had thrown it ; and the desire to go up and 
pluck the heart from the little mystery came upon 
him with a strength that he could not resist ; he 
rose twice and took up the key, and fingering it 
doubtfully, laid it down again ; then suddenly 
he took it up, and went swiftly into the turret- 
stair, and up, turning, turning, till his head was 
dizzy with the bright peeps of the world through 
the loophole windows. Now all v/as green, where 
a window gave on the down ; and now it was all 
clear air and sun, the warm breeze coming pleasantly 
into the cold stairway ; presently Mark heard the 
pattering of feet on the stair below, and knew 
that the old hound had determined to follow him ; 



THE CLOSED WINDOW 353 

and he waited a moment at the door, half pleased, 
in his strange mood, to have the company of a 
living thing. So when the dog was at his side, he 
stayed no longer, but opened the door and stepped 
within the room. 

The room, for all its faded look, had a strange 
air about it, and though he could not say why, 
Mark felt that he was surely expected. He did 
not hesitate, but walked to the shutter and con- 
sidered it for a moment ; he heard a sound behind 
him. It was the old hound who sat with his head 
aloft, sniffing the air uneasily ; Mark called him 
and held out his hand, but the hound would not 
move ; he wagged his tail as though to acknowledge 
that he was called, and then he returned to his 
uneasy quest. Mark watched him for a moment, 
and saw that the old dog had made up his mind 
that all was not well in the room, for he lay down, 
gathering his legs under him, on the threshold, 
and watched his master with frightened eyes, 
quivering visibly. Mark, no lighter of heart, and 
in a kind of fearful haste, pulled the great staple 
off the shutter and set it on the ground, and then 
wi'enched the shutters back ; the space revealed 
was largely filled by old and dusty webs of spiders, 
which Mark lightly tore down, using the staple of 
the shutters to do this ; it was with a strange 
shock of surprise that he saw that the window was 
dark, or nearly so ; it seemed as though there were 
some further obstacle outside ; yet Mark knew 
that from below the leaded panes of the window 
were visible. He drew back for a moment, but, 
unable to restrain his curiosity, wrenched the 

z 



354 THE CLOSED WINDOW 

rusted casement open. But still all was dark 
without ; and there came in a gust of icy wind 
from outside ; it was as though something had 
passed him swiftly, and he heard the old hound 
utter a strangled howl; then turning, he saw him 
spring to his feet with his hair bristling and his 
teeth bare, and next moment the dog turned and 
leapt out of the room. 

Mark, left alone, tried to curb a tide of horror 
that swept through his veins ; he looked round 
at the room, flooded with the southerly sunhght, 
and then he turned again to the dark window, 
and putting a strong constraint upon himself, 
leaned out, and saw a thing which bewildered him 
so strangely that he thought for a moment his 
senses had deserted him. He looked out on a 
lonely dim hillside, covered with rocks and stones ; 
the hill came up close to the window, so that he 
could have jumped down upon it, the wall below 
seeming to be built into the rocks. It was all 
dark and silent, like a clouded night, with a faint 
light coming from whence he could not see. The 
hill sloped away very steeply from the tower, and 
he seemed to see a plain beyond, where at the same 
time he knew that the down ought to lie. In the 
plain there was a light, like the firelit window of 
a house ; a little below him some shape like a 
crouching man seemed to run and slip among the 
stones, as though suddenly surprised, and seeking 
to escape. Side by side with a deadly fear which 
began to invade his heart, came an uncontrollable 
desire to leap down among the rocks ; and then 
it seemed to him that the figure below stood up- 



THE CLOSED WINDOVv^ 355 

right, and began to beckon him. There came over 
him a sense that he was in deadly peril ; and, like 
a man on the edge of a precipice, who has just 
enough will left to try to escape, he drew himself 
by main force away from the window, closed it, 
put the shutters back, replaced the staple, and, 
his limbs all trembling, crept out of the room, feeling 
along the walls Hke a palsied man. He locked 
the door, and then, his terror overpowering him, 
he fled down the turret-stairs. Hardly thinking 
what he did, he came out on the court, and going 
to the great well that stood in the centre of the 
yard, he went to it and flung the key down, hear- 
ing it clink on the sides as it fell. Even then he 
dared not re-enter the house, but glanced up and 
down, gazing about him, while the cloud of fear 
and horror by insensible degrees dispersed, leaving 
him weak and melancholy. 

Presently Roland returned, full of talk, but 
broke off to ask if Mark were ill. Mark, with a 
kind of surliness, an unusual mood for him, denied 
it somewhat sharply. Roland raised his eyebrows, 
and said no more, but prattled on. Presently 
after a silence he said to Mark, ■ ' What did you 
do all the morning ? " and it seem^ed to Mark as 
though this were accompanied with a spying look. 
An unreasonable anger seized him. " What does 
it matter to you what I did ? " he said. " May 
not I do what I like in my own house ? " 

" Doubtless," said Roland, and sate silent with 
uplifted brows ; then he hummed a tune, and 
presently went out. 

They sate at dinner that evening with long silences, 



356 THE CLOSED WINDOW 

contrary to their wont, though Mark bestirred him- 
self to ask questions. When they were left alone, 
Mark stretched out his hand to Roland, saying, 
** Roland, forgive me ! I spoke to you this morn- 
ing in a way of which I am ashamed ; we have 
lived so long together — and yet we cam.e nearer 
to quarrelling to-day than we have ever done before ; 
and it was my fault." 

Roland smiled, and held Mark's hand for a 
moment. " Oh, I had not given it another thought," 
he said ; " the wonder is that you can bear with 
an idle fellow as you do." Then they talked for 
awhile with the pleasant glow of friendliness that 
two good comrades feel when they have been recon- 
ciled. But late in the evening Roland said, " Was 
there any story, Mark, about your grandfather's 
leaving any treasure of money behind him ? " 

The question grated somewhat unpleasantly upon 
Mark's mood ; but he controlled himself and said, 
" No, none that I know of — except that he found 
the estate rich and left it poor — and what he did 
with his revenues no one knows — you had better 
ask the old men of the village ; they know more 
about the house than I do. But, Roland, forgive me 
once more if I say that I do not desire Sir James's 
name to be mentioned between us. I wish we had 
not entered his room ; I do not know how to ex- 
press it, but it seems to me as though he had sate 
there, waiting quietly to be summoned, and as 
though we had troubled him, and — as though he 
had joined us. I think he was an evil man, close 
and evil. And there hangs in my mind a verse of 
Scripture, where Samuel said to the witch, ' Why 



THE CLOSED WINDOW 357 

hast thou disquieted me to bring me up ? ' Oh," 
he went on, "I do not know why I talk wildly 
thus " ; for he saw that Roland was looking at 
him with astonishment, with parted lips ; " but 
a shadow has fallen upon me, and there seems 
evil abroad." 

From that day forward a heaviness lay on the 
spirit of Mark that could not be scattered. He 
felt, he said to himself, as though he had meddled 
light-heartedly with something far deeper and more 
dangerous than he had supposed — like a child that 
has aroused some evil beast that slept. He had 
dark dreams too. The figure that he had seen 
among the rocks seemed to peep and beckon him, 
with a mocking smile, over perilous places, where he 
followed unwilling. But the heavier he grew the 
lighter-hearted Roland became ; he seemed to walk 
in some bright vision of his own, intent upon a 
large and gracious design. 

One day he came into the hall in the morning, 
looking so radiant that Mark asked him half envi- 
ously what he had to make him so glad. " Glad," 
said Roland, "oh, I know it ! Merry dreams, 
perhaps. What do you think of a good grave 
fellow who beckons me on with a brisk smile, and 
shows me places, wonderful places, under banks 
and in woodland pits, where riches lie piled to- 
gether ? I am sure that some good fortune is 
preparing for me, Mark — but you shall share it." 
Then Mark, seeing in his words a certain likeness, 
with a difference, to his own dark visions, pressed 
his lips together and sate looking stonily before him. 

At last, one still evening of spring, when the 



358 THE CLOSED WINDOW 

air was intolerably languid and heavy for mankind, 
but full of sweet promises for trees and hidden 
peeping things, though a lurid redness of secret 
thunder had lain all day among the heavy clouds 
in the plain, the two dined together. Mark had 
walked alone that day, and had lain upon the turf 
of the down, fighting against a weariness that 
seemed to be poisoning the very springs of life 
within him. But Roland had been brisk and 
alert, coming and going upon some secret and busy 
errand, with a fragment of a song upon his lips, 
like a man preparing to set off for a far country, 
who is glad to be gone. In the evening, after 
they had dined, Roland had let his fancy rove in 
talk. " If we were rich," he said, " how we would 
transform this old place ! " 

"It is fair enough for me," said Mark heavily ; 
and Roland had chidden him hghtly for his sombre 
ways, and sketched new plans of life. 

Mark, wearied and yet excited, with an intoler- 
able heaviness of spirit, went early to bed, leaving 
Roland in the hall. After a short and broken 
sleep, he awoke, and lighting a candle, read idly 
and gloomily to pass the heavy hours. The house 
seemed full of strange noises that night. Once 
or twice came a scraping and a faint hammering 
in the wall ; light footsteps seemed to pass in the 
turret — but the tower was always full of noises, 
and Mark heeded them not ; at last he fell asleep 
again, to be suddenly awakened by a strange and 
desolate crying, that came he knew not whence, 
but seemed to wail upon the air. The old dog, 
who slept in Mark's room, heard it too ; he was 



THE CLOSED WINDOW 359 

sitting up in a fearful expectancy. Mark rose in 
haste, and taking the candle, went into the passage 
that led to Roland's room. It was empty, but 
a light burned there and showed that the room 
had not been slept in. Full of a horrible fear, 
Mark returned, and went in hot haste up the turret 
steps, fear and anxiety struggling together in his 
mind. When he reached the top, he found the 
little door broken forcibly open, and a light within. 
He cast a haggard look round the room, and then 
the crying came again, this time very faint and 
desolate. 

Mark cast a shuddering glance at the window ; 
it was wide open and showed a horrible liquid 
blackness ; round the bar in the centre that divided 
the casements, there was something knotted. He 
hastened to the window, and saw that it was a 
rope, which hung heavily. Leaning out he saw 
that something dangled from the rope below him 
— and then came the crying again out of the dark- 
ness, like the crying of a lost spirit. 

He could see as in a bitter dream the outHne of 
the hateful hillside ; but there seemed to his dis- 
ordered fancy to be a tumult of some kind below ; 
pale Hghts moved about, and he saw a group of 
forms which scattered like a shoal of fish when he 
leaned out. He knew that he was looking upon a 
scene that no mortal eye ought to behold, and it 
seemed to him at the moment as though he was 
staring straight into hell. 

The rope went down among the rocks and dis- 
appeared ; but Mark clenched it firmly and using 
all his strength, which was great, drew it up hand 



36o THE CLOSED WINDOW 

over hand ; as he drew it up he secured it in loops 
round the great oak table ; he began to be afraid 
that his strength would not hold out, and once 
when he returned to the window after securing a 
loop, a great hooded thing like a bird flew noise- 
lessly at the window and beat its wings. 

Presently he saw that the form which dangled 
on the rope was clear of the rocks below ; it had 
come up through them, as though they were but 
smoke ; and then his task seemed to him more sore 
than ever. Inch by painful inch he drew it up, 
working fiercely and silently ; his muscles were 
tense, and drops stood on his brow, and the veins 
hammered in his ears ; his breath came and went 
in sharp sobs. At last the form was near enough 
for him to seize it ; he grasped it by the middle and 
drew Roland, for it was Roland, over the window- 
sill. His head dangled and drooped from side to 
side ; his face was dark with strangled blood and 
his limbs hung helpless. Mark drew his knife and 
cut the rope that was tied under his arms ; the 
helpless limbs sank huddling on the floor ; then 
Mark looked up ; at the window a few feet from 
him was a face, more horrible than he had supposed 
a human face, if it was human indeed, could be. 
It was deadly white, and hatred, baffled rage, and 
a sort of devilish malignity glared from the white 
set eyes, and the drawn mouth. There was a rush 
from behind him ; the old hound, who had crept 
up unawares into the room, with a fierce outcry 
of rage sprang on to the window-sill ; Mark heard 
the scraping of his claws upon the stone. Then the 
hound leapt through the window, and in a moment 



THE CLOSED WINDOW 361 

there was the sound of a heavy fall outside. At 
the same instant the darkness seemed to hft and 
draw up Hke a cloud ; a bank of blackness rose past 
the window, and left the dark outUne of the down, 
with a sky sown with tranquil stars. 

The cloud of fear and horror that hung over Mark 
hfted too ; he felt in some dim way that his adver- 
sary was vanquished ; he carried Roland down the 
stairs and laid him on his bed ; he roused the house- 
hold, who looked fearfully at him, and then Ms 
own strength failed ; he sank upon the floor of his 
room, and the dark tide of unconsciousness closed 
over him. 

Mark's return to health was slow. One who has 
looked into the Unknown finds it hard to beheve 
again in the outward shows of hfe. His first con- 
scious speech was to ask for his hound ; they told 
him that the body of the dog had been found, hor- 
ribly mangled as though by the teeth of some fierce 
animal, at the foot of the tower. The dog was 
buried in the garden, with a slab above him, on 
which are the words : — 

EUGE SERVE BONE ET FIDELIS 

A silly priest once said to Mark that it was not 
meet to write Scripture over the grave of a beast. 
But Mark said warily that an inscription was for 
those who read it, to make them humble, and not 
to increase the pride of what lay below. 

When Mark could leave his bed, his first care was 
to send for builders, and the old tower of Nort was 
taken down, stone by stone, to the ground, and a 



362 THE CLOSED WINDOW 

fair chapel built on the site ; in the wall there was 
a secret stairway, which led from the top chamber, 
and came out among the elder-bushes that grew 
below the tower, and here was found a coffer of 
gold, which paid for the church ; because, until it 
was found, it was Mark's design to leave the place 
desolate. Mark is wedded since, and has his chil- 
dren about his knee ; those who come to the house 
see a strange and wan man, who sits at Mark's 
board, and whom he uses very tenderly ; sometimes 
this man is merry, and tells a long tale of his being 
beckoned and led by a tall and handsome person, 
smiHng, down a hillside to fetch gold ; though he 
can never remember the end of the matter ; but 
about the springtime he is silent or mutters to 
himself : and this is Roland ; his spirit seems shut 
up within him in some close cell, and Mark prays 
for his release, but till God call him, he treats him 
like a dear brother, and with the reverence due to 
one who has looked out on the other side of Death, 
and who may not say what his eyes beheld. 



THE BROTHERS 

There was once a great Lord of Yorkshire, the 
Baron de Benoit, who had two sons named Henry 
and Christopher. Their mother was long dead ; 
Henry was a bold and careless boy, com'ageous and 
fearless, outspoken to every one, yet loving none ; 
fond of the chase, restless, and never weary ; but 
Christopher was a timid and weakly child, with a 
heart for all ; dreaming of great deeds which he 
feared to do ; while Henry dreamed not, but did 
whatever he undertook, great things or small. 
Christopher sate much with the old priest, or with 
the women ; when the minstrels played in the hall, 
his heart was hfted up within him ; and he loved 
to loiter alone in the woods in springtime, to look 
in the open faces of the flowers, and to Hsten for the 
songs of birds. The Baron was a rough good- 
natured man, who ruled his estates dihgently ; and 
he loved Henry well, but Christopher he despised 
in his heart, and often said that he was a girl 
spoiled in the making. 

Now how different were the boys in character 
let the following tale witness : 

Once the huntsmen caught a wolf, and brought 
it to the castle yard to make sport ; the wolf blinked 
and snarled in the pen where they put it ; and the 

boys were called to kill it. Christopher bent over 

363 



364 THE BROTHERS 

to look at it, and thought that the wolf was doubt- 
less wondering why men wished it evil, and was 
longing for the deep woods and for its warm lair. 
Henry thrust a spear into Christopher's hand and 
bade him slay it. The wolf rose at his approach, 
hobbling on his pinioned feet, hating to die, thought 
Christopher, among laughter and jests. And he 
threw the spear down and said, " I will not." 
" Nay, you dare not," said Henry ; and he thrust 
the spear into the wolf's side ; the wolf struggled 
hard, and as Henry pushed close, tore his hand ; 
but Henry only laughed and thrust again ; and 
then he daubed Christopher's face with the blood 
that ran from his hand, and said, " Go and tell the 
maidens that you have slain a wolf in single combat." 

But, for all that, Christopher loved his brother 
exceedingly, and thought him the brightest and 
goodliest treasure in the world. 

There came to stay at the castle an Abbot, a wise 
and brave man, before whom even the Baron was 
awed ; and he had much talk with Christopher, 
who opened his heart to him. The Abbot found 
that he could read, and knew the stories of the 
saints and the answers of the Mass, and had dis- 
cernment of good and evil. So the Abbot sought 
out the Baron, and told him that Christopher would 
make a very wise priest, and that he was apt to 
be ruled, and therefore, said he, he will be apt to 
rule ; and he added that he thought that the boy 
would make a great counsellor, and even bishop ; 
and then the Baron said that Christopher had no 
courage and endurance. The Abbot replied that 
he believed he had both, but that they were of a 



THE BROTHERS 365 

different nature to the courage and endurance of a 
man-at-arms ; that he was of the stuff of which 
holy men, martyrs and saints, were made , but 
that it was ill to nurture a dove in the nest of an 
eagle. So the Baron said that he should take Chris- 
topher, and make a priest of him, if the boy would. 

Then Christopher was called, and the Baron asked 
him bluntly whether he would be a priest ; and 
Christopher, seeing the Abbot's kind glance upon 
him, took courage and said that he would obey his 
father in all things. But he looked so wan and 
gentle, and so like his mother, that the Baron put 
his arm about him and said kindly that he would 
have him choose for himself, and kissed his cheek. 
But Christopher burst out weeping and hid his 
face on his father's shoulder ; and then he said, 
" I will go." And the Abbot said, " Baron, you 
are a man of war, and yet shall you be proud of 
this your son ; he shall win victories indeed, but 
in his own field — nay, I doubt not that he will do 
your house great service and honour." And so it 
was arranged that the Abbot, who was on a journey, 
should return in a week and take the boy. 

So Christopher had a week to make his farewells, 
and he made them faithfully and tenderly, though 
he thought his heart would break. But the Abbot 
had told him on parting that God indeed called 
men, when He would have them to serve Him, and 
that he too was surely bidden. And Christopher, 
young though he was, felt that he was like a boat 
that must battle through a few breakers to reach 
a quiet haven ; and he spake with all and each, 
and said farewell, until even the roughest were 



^.66 THE BROTHERS 



o 



sorry that the boy should go. But the last night 
was the sorest, for he must part with his brother ; 
the boys slept together in a great bed in a room 
in the tower ; and Christopher dared that night 
to encircle his brother with his arms, and tell him 
that he loved him, and that he wished there were 
something small or great that he could do for 
him. And Henry, who loved not caresses, said 
laughing, that he should not need his services for 
a long time. " But when I am old and weary and 
have done many deeds of blood, then you may 
pray for me if you will." Then Christopher would 
have had him talk awhile, but Henry said he was 
weary and must sleep, and turned away, adding 
that he would wake betimes in the m^orning and 
that they would talk then. And Christopher lay 
and heard him breathe softly, and at last, wearied 
out, he slept. But Henry v/oke in the dawn, and 
thinking of a stag thc.t came down to pull the hay 
from the ricks, and half fearing, too, his brother's 
tears and sighs, dressed himself quietly and stole 
away while Christopher slept, thinking that he 
would return to see him go. And when Christopher 
woke and found his brother gone, he fell into such 
a passion of grief that he heeded nothing else, but 
went through his farewells so stonily and dumbly 
that the Baron made haste to set him on his journey ; 
and Henry did not return. 

So Christopher passed into the holy life, but 
choosing not to be a priest, he became a monk of 
the strictest discipline, so that the monks won- 
dered at his holiness. But they at the Castle soon 
forgot him and thought no more of the frail child. 



THE BROTHERS 367 

Then it happened that the Baron rode one day 
in the sun, and coming home, dismounted, and fell 
dizzily upon his face ; they laid him in his chamber, 
but he never spoke, only breathed heavily ; and 
that night he died. And Henr}^ who was now 
of age, thought but little of his father's death 
because of the respect that all paid him, and of 
the wealth and power that thus flowed suddenly 
into his hands. And he married a fair maiden 
called the Lady Alice, who bore him a son ; and he 
ruled dihgently in his lands, and rode to battle, 
and lived such a life as he best loved. 

But one day there fell upon him a heaviness 
of limb and a loathing for food ; and though they 
daily tended him, he grew no better ; soon he 
could not even sit upon his horse, but became so 
pale and wasted that he could hardly rise from 
his chair. And some thought that a spell was 
cast upon him, but that mended not matters at 
all ; the king's own leech came to visit him, and 
shook his head, saying that no art could avail, 
since the spring of life was somehow broken within 
him and he must die unless God were good to him 
and healed him. 

Now the Lady Alice feared God, and knew what 
wonders were wrought by Him at the prayers of 
saints, so she took counsel with the priests of the 
Castle, but said no word of it to the Lord Henry, 
because he jested at sacred tilings ; and the priest 
told her that three days' journey away was a 
house of holy monks, where many miracles of heal- 
ing were wrought, and he advised her to go secretly 
and ask counsel of the Prior. So under pretence 



368 THE BROTHERS 

of seeking for another leech, the Lady Alice rode 
south, and on the third day she came to the place. 
The monastery stood very solitary in a valley 
with much wood about it ; the walls rose fair and 
white, with a tall church in the midst, all lit with 
a heavenly light of evening, And the Lady Alice 
felt in her burdened heart that God would be gracious 
and hear her prayers. 

They rode to the gate, and Alice asked that she 
might see the Prior ; she would not tell her name, 
but the porter seeing her attended by two men-at- 
arms, admitted her ; and presently the Lady Alice 
was had into a small bare room, and in a moment 
the Prior stood before her. He was an old man, 
very lean and grim, but with a kindly face ; she 
told him that her husband, a great knight, was 
sick unto death, but she told him not her name, 
and the Prior spared to ask her ; when she had 
done her story, the Prior said that there was in 
the monastery a young monk. Brother Lawrence, 
of such steadfast life and holiness that his prayers 
would almost avail to give life to the dead ; and 
that he would dispense him leave, if he were willing 
to go with her awhile ; for the Prior saw that she 
was a great lady, and he was moved by her grief 
and purity. 

So Brother Lawrence was fetched, and soon 
stood before them ; and the Prior told the lady's 
tale, and Brother Lawrence said that he would 
go, if he was permitted. So in the morning they 
rode away. Then the Lady Alice told him all 
the tale, saying that the sick man was the Baron 
de Benoit, and that he loved not God, though he 



THE BROTHERS 369 

served him faithfully, though knowing not that 
it was God whom he served. And the monk said, 
" Ay, and there be many such ; " but she wondered 
that he grew so strangely pale, yet thought that 
it was his long fasting, and the bitter morning air. 
Then the monk questioned her very nearly about 
all her life, saying that in such cases it was needful 
to know all things, " that our prayers," he said, 
" beat not in vain against a closed gate." And she 
told him of all she knew. 

Then at last, in a still twilight, they drew near 
to the Castle, and the lady saw that the monk 
kept his eyes fixed on the ground, and looked not 
to left nor right, like a man in a sore conflict ; and 
she knew that he prayed. 

That night the monk was laid in a chamber in 
the tower ; and all night his lamp burned, till the 
dawn came up. And the watchman thought he 
prayed late ; but if they could have seen the monk 
they would have wondered that he paced softly 
up and down, looking lovingly about him, the tears 
welling to his eyes ; once he kissed the bedpost 
of the bed ; and then he knelt and wrestled in prayer, 
until the priest called him to the Mass. And there 
seemed such a radiance about him, worn and thin 
though he was, that the priest marvelled to see him. 

Then the Lady Alice came to fetch him in a great 
fear fulness, for she knew that the Lord Henry 
hated monks ; but the monk said to her that she 
need not fear ; and she took comfort. 

Then she brought him to the great room where 
the Baron lay ; and she went in, and said, " Henry, 
I have brought one who works many wonders of 

2 A 



370 THE BROTHERS 

healing — and dear husband, be not angry, though 
he is a monk ; for the monks know many things ; 
and perhaps God will be gracious, and give m^^ 
dear one back to me, to cherish me and our son." 

The Lord Henry looked at her very sternly ; but 
the pale and tearful face of his wife, and her loving 
grief moved him, and he said, " Well, I will see 
him ; and let it testify in how evil a case I am, 
that monks are brought to my bedside, and I have 
not even the strength to say them nay." He 
spoke roughly, but he took the Lady Alice's hand 
in his own and said to her, " Dear one, make haste. 
I will not refuse you this, for I think it is the last 
request that I shall have power to grant — I am 
past the help of man." 

For since the Lady Alice's departure, the Lord 
Henry had been in ver^/ evil case ; till then he had 
hoped ; but his sleep had gone from him, and a 
great blackness came over him, and seemed to 
part his life, as with a dark chasm, from what lay 
before him. There in those lonel}- hours he went 
through the scenes of his past life ; he saw himself 
a bright and bold boy, and all the joy of his early 
years came before him, and he saw that his joy had 
been the greater because he had not known he was 
more glad than others. He thought of his father 
and of his frail brother Christopher ; and he wished 
he had been kinder to both ; then he had the thought 
of his wife and his helpless child, and all that might 
befall them. And he thought, too, of God, whom 
he must now meet, who seemed to sit like a Judge, 
in a pavilion of clouds at a ladder's fiery head, with 
no smile or welcome for him. 



THE BROTHERS 371 

So the Lady Alice went out and brought Brother 
Lawrence to the chamber ; and at the door he 
prayed for strength that he might comfort him 
that was sick ; and Lady Ahce pulled the door 
to and departed ; and the two were left alone. 

Then Brother Lawrence murmured a Latin salu- 
tation, as the custom of his order was ; and Henry 
fixed his eyes, large with sickness, on him, and made 
a reverence of the head. Then he said, " I wish, 
sir, I could give you a better welcome ; but I am 
sick, as you see ; indeed, I think I am very near 
my end. The Lady Alice would have me see you, 
for she says you have wrought wonderful cures. 
Well, here is a man who is mxore than willing to be 
cured ; but I am no saint. I believe in God and 
Holy Church ; but — I will speak openly — not much 
in monks and priests." 

" As though," said the monk with a smile, " a 
man should say ' I believe in food, but not in the 
eating of it ' — yet let that pass, my Lord Baron ; 
I am no foe to plain speaking — it v/as ever the mark 
of Christ and the holy saints ; but let me ask you 
first about your disease, for that is my duty now." 

Henry was well pleased with the shrewdness of 
the monk's words ; and he answered the Brother's 
questions about his illness with a good grace. When 
he had done, the monk shook his head. " I must 
warn you," he said, " that it is a sore case ; but I 
have known such recover. I would have time to 
consider ; let me abide to-night under your roof, 
and I will tell you to-morrow what shall be given 
to me to say ; " and the monk made as though he 
would have withdrawn. 



372 THE BROTHERS 

But Henry said, " One question I would ask of 
you. I had a brother, Christopher by name ; 
he is a monk — but he hath sent me no word of 
himself for many years — indeed, he may be dead. 
Can you give me tidings of him ? " 

The other grew pale to the lips ; then he said, 
as with an effort, " I know your brother, my Lord 
Baron, but the rules of our order — he is of the 
same order indeed as myself — are strict, and it 
is forbidden us to speak of our brethren to those 
that are without. Be assured, however, that he 
is alive and well ; and perhaps you shall have 
tidings from himself anon." 

Then he went out ; and presently the Lady 
Alice came in to see her husband. Henry seemed 
to her a little brighter already, and a hope flickered 
up in her heart. He smiled at her and said, " My 
Alice, I think well of your monk ; he is a shrewd 
fellow, and knows his trade. I think somewhat 
better of his kind — he seems to me, indeed, in some 
way familiar, or reminds me of one that I know ; 
let him be well bestowed, and to-morrow he will 
tell me, as he said, what he thinks of my case." 

But the monk went to the chapel, and there 
he wrestled sore in prayer ; and then he fasted 
and watched ; but at last, wearied out, he fell 
asleep just before the dawn, and there came a 
dream to him. He dreamed that he stood in the 
castle yard, and he had in his hand two pots of 
flowers, one of lilies and one of roses; and there 
came to him a tall and strange man, with a look 
of command in his face, yet full of love ; and the 
monk thought that he turned to the stranger and 



THE BROTHERS 373 

offered him the flowers, and the man laid his hand 
upon the roses ; but the monk said, " Nay, my 
lord, rather take the lilies ; " and the other said, 
" The roses are mine and the lilies are mine ; one 
will I take and leave the other awhile ; but at thy 
prayer I will take the lilies first, because thou hast 
been faithful in a few things." Then the monk gave 
him the lilies, but with a sore pang ; and the other 
laid his hand upon them, and the lilies withered away. 
Then the monk said, " And now, my lord, they 
are not worthy to be given thee," but the other said, 
" The}^ shall revive and bloom," and then he smiled. 

Then the monk awoke, and the dawn came 
faintly in at the east : and he shivered in his vigil, 
and fell to pondering on his dream ; for he doubted 
not that it came from God. So, when he had 
pondered a little, he was amazed and said in his 
prayer, " Woe is me that I cannot see light." And 
as he said the words the sun brightened up the 
sky, and in a moment the monk saw what the Lord 
would have him to do. 

Then, when it was day, he sought the Lady 
Alice, and she came and stood before him, and he 
said, " Lady, God will give back your lord to you — 
— for a time ; only believe ! " Then she fell to weep- 
ing for joy, and the monk checked her not, but said, 
" These be gracious tears." Then he said, " And 
now I must return in haste ; I must not linger." 
And she prayed him to go with her to the Baron ; 
but he said he must not ; but one thing he said he 
would have her promise, that if it were needful 
for him to see the Baron, when he should be healed 
of his disease, he would come to his summons ; and 



374 THE BROTHERS 

the Lady Alice promised and pledged her word. 
Then he blessed her and departed and rode away, 
looking neither to left nor right. And the Lady 
Alice went to her husband, and the Baron said, 
wondering, that he was better already, and he called 
for food and ate with appetite ; and from that 
day he revived, climbing back slowly into life again. 
And there was great rejoicing in the Castle. 

And when he was nearly well, and could walk 
and ride, and his strength increased day by day, 
giving him exceeding joy, there rode a monk in 
haste to the Castle, and said to the Lady Alice 
that Brother Lawrence woald see the Baron ; 
and he added that he must not fail to come speedily 
if he would see him alive, for he was in sore case. 
Then the Lady Alice asked how it was with him„, 
and the monk said that ever since he had visited 
the Castle he had been in the chastening of God ; 
his strength ebbed from him day by day. Then the 
Lady Alice told her husband of his promises, and 
he said, " Right gladly will I go and see the Brother, 
for he hath brought me back to life again, and he 
is a true man." 

So the Baron rode away, and as he rode the 
spring was coming in all the lanes ; the trees stood 
in a cloud of green ; the woods were sweet with 
flov/ers, and the birds sang loud and clear, and the 
Baron had such joy in his heart as he had not be- 
lieved a heart could hold ; and he found it in his 
spirit to thank God for the gift of life restored to 
him, and as he went he sang softly to himself. 

And he came to the house, and because he was 
a great Baron, the Prior came out to do him honour. 



THE BROTHERS 375 

and the Baron lighted off his horse and did him 
great reverence, saying, " Lord Prior, I have Hved 
carelessly and thought little of God and served Him 
little ; but He hath rewarded me though I am un- 
worthy ; and now I will serve Him well." Then the 
Prior rejoiced, and said, " Lord Baron, thou speakest 
wisely, and the Lord shall increase thee mightily." 

Then the Prior led him to the infirmary, for 
he said that the Brother Lawrence was near to 
death ; and the Baron found him lying in a little 
bed in a corner of the great room which was all 
full of light. There stood two monks beside him ; 
but when the Baron entered. Brother Lawrence, 
who lay in a swoon, raised himself up, and said 
smxiling, " So thou hast come, my brother." And 
the Baron kneeled down beside him, and said, " Yes, 
Brother, I have come to show my thanks to you 
for 3^our prayers and good offices. For God has 
heard them and given me life." Then Brother 
Lawrence said, " Give the glory to God, my 
brother," and the baron said, " Ay, I do that ! " 
and Brother Lawrence smiled and bade the monks 
depart from him and leave him with the Baron 
alone. And then Brother Lawrence looked upon 
him for a while in silence, and his eyes were full of 
a heavenly light and great joy. And presently he 
said, " I have a thing that I must tell you, my 
brother. You asked of me whether I knew your 
brother Christopher, and I answered you shortly 
enough, but now I have leave to tell you ; and I 
am he." 

Then there was a long silence, and the Baron 
drew near and kissed him on the cheek. 



376 THE BROTHERS 

Then Brother Lawrence said, "And now, dear 
brother, I will tell you all the truth ; for the hand 
of God is laid upon me, and to-day I must depart ; " 
and then he told him of the vision and interpreted 
it saying, " The Lord was merciful and let me give 
my life for thine ; and I give it, O how gladly ; 
and I tell you not this for your pity or for your 
praise, but that you may know that your life is 
not given you for nought ; God had good works 
prepared for me to walk in, and now must you 
walk in them — and be not dismayed. He calls 
you not to the life of prayer ; but be loving and 
just and merciful to the poor and the oppressed ; 
for God has de3ds fit for all to do; and though I 
could have served Him faithfully in the cloister, 
you will serve Him better in the world ; only 
remember this, that life is lent you, and not given, 
and you must increase it, that you may give it 
back more worthily." 

Then the Baron was full of heaviness, and said 
that he could not take life on these terms ; that 
both should live, or that if his brother must die, 
he would die too. Then Brother Lawrence re- 
buked him lovingly ; and then began to talk of 
their childish days, saying with a smile, " When 
I last saw you, dear brother, you promised me 
that you would talk with me in the morning, and 
the morning is come now, and you will keep your 
promise." And then presently he said, " Henry, we 
are frail things, and it is a pitiful thing that so much 
of vanity is mingled with our flesh ; but I used to 
think as a child that I would compel you some day 
to think me brave, and would make you grateful 



THE BROTHERS 377 

to me for a service done yoii — and I think of this 
now and am glad ; but now I grow weak and can 
speak no more ; but tell me of your life and of all 
that I loved in the old days, that I may have you 
in my mind when I sleep beneath the altar, if 
God will have one so unworthy to sleep there." 
And the Baron told him all things, struggling with 
his tears. 

Then said Brother Lawrence : " The hour is 
come ; call my brethren and let me go ; He calleth 
me." 

Then the monks came in and made the cross 
of ashes, and did the rites of death ; and Brother 
Lawrence smiled with closed eyes, but opened 
them once again upon his brother, who stood to 
see the end. And presently Brother Lawrence 
sighed like a weary child and died. 

Many years have passed since that day ; the 
Baron is a grey-haired man and has his grand- 
children about him ; and he has done worthily, 
knowing that life is lent him for this end. And 
every year he rides with a man-at-arms or two to 
stand beside the grave of Christopher, and to renew 
the vow which he made when his brother died. 



THE TEMPLE OF DEATH 

It was late in the afternoon of a dark and rainy 

day when Paullinus left the little village where 

he had found shelter for the night. The village 

lay in a great forest country in the heart of Gaul. 

The scattered folk that inhabited it were mostly 

heathens, and very strange and secret rites were still 

celebrated in lonely sanctuaries. Christian teachers, 

of whom Paullinus was one, travelled alone or in 

little companies along the great high roads, turning 

aside to visit the woodla,nd hamlets, and labouring 

patiently to make the good news of the Vv^ord known. 

They were mostly unmolested, for they travelled 

under the powerful name of Romans, and in many 

places they were kindly received, Paullinus had 

been for months slowly faring from village to village, 

without any fixed plan of journeying, but asking 

his way from place to place, as the Spirit led liim. 

He was a young man, a very faithful Christian, 

and with a love of adventure and travel which 

stood him in good stead. He carried a little money, 

but he had seldom need to use it, for the people 

were simple and hospitable ; he did not try to hold 

assemblies, for he believed that the Gospel must 

spread like leaven from quiet heart to quiet heart. 

Indeed he did not purpose to proclaim the Word, 

but rather to prepare the wa}/ for those that should 

378 



THE TExMPLE OF DEATH 379 

come after. He was of a strong habit, spare and 
upright ; when he was alone he walked s\viftly, 
looking very eagerly about him. He loved the 
aspect of the earth, the green branching trees, the 
wild creatures of the woodland, the voices of birds 
and the sound of streams. And he had too a great 
and simple love for his o^^^l kind, and though he had 
little eloquence he had a plentiful command of 
friendly and shrewd talk, and even better than he 
loved to speak he loved to listen. He had a sweet 
and open smile, that drew the hearts of all whom 
he met to him, especially of the children. And he 
loved his wandering life in the free air, without 
the daily cares of settled habit. 

He had spent the night with an old and calm 
man, who had been a warrior in his youth, but who 
could now do little but attend to his farm. Paul- 
linus had spoken to him of the love of the Father 
and the tender care that Jesus had to His brothers 
on earth ; the old man had listened courteous^, 
and had said that it sounded fair enough, but that 
he was too old to change, and must stand in the 
ancient ways. Paullinus did not press him ; his 
custom was never to do that. In the morning he 
had gone to and fro in the village, and it was late 
before he thought of setting out ; the old man 
had pressed him to stay another night, but some- 
thing in Paullinus' heart had told him that he must 
not wait, for it seemed to him that there was work 
to be done. The old man came with liim to the 
edge of the forest, and gave him very particular 
directions to the village he was bound for, which 
lay in the heart of the wood. " Of one thing I 



38o THE TEMPLE OF DEATH 

must advise you," he said. '' There is, in the wood, 
some way off the track, a place to which I would 
not have you go — it is a temple of one of our gods, 
a dark place. Be certain, dear sir, to pass it by. 
No one would go there willingly, save that we are 
sometimes compelled." He broke off suddenly 
here and looked about him fearfully ; then he went 
on in a low voice : *' It is called the Temple of the 
Grey Death, and there are rites done there of which 
I may not speak. I would it were otherwise, but 
the gods are strong — and the priest is a hard and 
evil man, who won his office in a terrible way, 
and shall lose it no less terribly. Oh, go not there, 
dear stranger ; " and he laid his hand upon his arm. 

" Dear brother," said Paullinus, " I have no 
mind to go there — ^but your words seem to have 
a dark meaning behind them. What are these 
rites of which you speak ? " But the old man 
shook his head. 

" I may not speak of them," he said, " it is better 
to be silent." 

Then they took a kind leave of each other, and 
Paullinus said that he would pass again that way 
to see his friend, " for we are friends, I know." 
And so he went into the wood. It was a wood of 
very ancient trees, and the dark leaves roofed over 
the grassy track making a tunnel. The heavens 
too grew dark above, and Paullinus heard the drops 
patter upon the leaves. Generally he loved well 
enough to walk in the woodways, but here it seemed 
different. He would have liked a companion. 
Something sinister and terrible seemed to him to 
hide within those gloomy avenues, and the feeling 



THE TEMPLE OF DEATH 381 

grew stronger every moment. But he said to 
himself some of the simple hymns with which he 
often cheered his way, and felt again that he was 
in the hands of God. 

Presently he passed a little forest pool that was 
one of the marks of his way. Upon the further 
bank he w^as surprised to see a man sitting, with a 
rod or spear in his hand, looking upon the water. 
He was glad to see another man in this solitude, and 
hailed him cheerfully, asking if he was in the right 
way. The man looked up at the sound. Paul- 
linus saw that he was of middle age, very strong 
and muscular — but undoubtedly he had an evil 
face. He scowled, as though he were vexed to be 
interrupted, and with an odd and angry gesture of 
the hand he stepped quickly within the wood and 
disappeared. Paullinus felt in his mind that the 
man wished him evil, and went on his wa}^ some- 
what heavily. And now the sun began to go down 
and it w^as darker than ever in the forest ; Paullinus 
came to a place where the road forked, and thinking 
over his note of the way, struck off to the left, but 
as he did so he felt a certain misgiving which he 
could not explain. He now began to hurry, for 
the light failed every moment, and the colour was 
soon gone out of the grass beneath his feet, leaving 
all a dark and indistinguishable brown. Soon the 
path forked again, and then came a road striking 
across the one that he had pursued of which he did 
not think he had been told. He went straight 
forward, but it was now grown so dark that he 
could no longer see his way, and stumbled very 
sadly along the wet path, feeling with his hand for 



382 THE TEMPLE OF DEATH 

the trees. He thought that he must by this time 
have gone much further than the distance between 
the villages, and it was clear to him that he had 
somehow missed the road. 

He at last determined that he would try to re- 
turn, and went slowly back the way that he had 
come, till at last the night came down upon him. 
Then PauUinus was struck with a great fear. There 
were wolves in those forests he knew, though they 
lived in the unvisited depths of the wood and came 
not near the habitations of men unless they were 
fierce with famine. But he had heard several times 
a strange snarling cry some way off in the wood, 
and once or twice he had thought he was being 
softly followed. So he determined to go no further, 
but to climb up into a tree, if he could find one, 
and there to spend an uneasy night. 

He felt about for some time, but could discover 
nothing but small saplings, when he suddenly saw 
through the trees a light shine, and it came across 
him that he had stumbled as it were by accident 
upon the village. So he went forward slowly 
towards the light — there was no track here — often 
catching his feet amxong brambles and low plants, 
till the gloom lifted somewhat and he felt a freer 
air, and saw that he was in a clearing in the wood. 
Then he discerned, in front of him, a space of 
deeper darkness against the sky, what he thought 
to be the outline of the roofs of buildings ; then the 
light shone out of a window near the ground ; but 
presently he came to a stop, for he saw the light 
flash and gleam in the ripples of a water that lay 
in his path and blocked his way. 



THE TEMPLE OF DEATH 383 

Then he called aloud once or twice ; something 
seemed to stir in the house, and presently the light 
in the window was obscured by the head and 
shoulders of a man, who pressed to the opening ; 
but there was no answer. Then Paullinus spoke 
very clearly, and said that he w^as a Roman, a 
traveller who had lost his way. Then a harsh 
voice told him to walk round the water to the left 
and wait awhile ; which Paullinus did. 

Soon he heard steps come out of the house and 
come to the water's edge. Then he heard sounds 
as though some one were walking on a hollow 
board — then with a word of warning there fell the 
end of a plank near him on the bank, and he was 
bidden to come across. He did so, though the 
bridge was narrow and he was half afraid of falling ; 
but in a moment he was at the other side, a dark 
figure beside him. He was bidden to wait again, 
and the figure went out over the water and seemed 
to pull in the plank that had served as a bridge ; 
and then the man returned and bade him to come 
forward. Paullinus followed the figure, and in a 
moment he could see the dark eaves of a long, low 
house before him, very rudely but strongly built ; 
then a door was opened showing a lighted room 
within, and he was bidden to step forward and 
enter. 

I-Ie found himself in a large, bare chamber, the 
walls and ceiling of a dark wood. A pine torch 
flared and dripped in a socket. There were one or 
two rough seats and a table spread with a meal. 
At the end of the room there were some bricks 
piled for a fireplace with charred ashes and a smoul- 



384 THE TEMPLE OF DEATH 

dering log among them, for though it was still 
summer the nights began to be brisk. On the 
walls hung some implements ; a spade and a hoe, 
a spear, a sword, some knives and javelins. He 
that inhabited it seemed to be part a tiller of the 
soil and part a huntsman ; but there were other 
things of which PauUinus could not guess the use — 
hooks and pronged forks. There were skins of 
beasts on the floor, and on the ceiling hung bundles 
of herbs and dried meats. The air was pungent 
with pine-smoke. He recognised the man at once 
as the same that he had seen beside the pool ; and 
he looked to Paullinus even stranger and more 
dangerous than he had seemed before. He seemed 
too to be on his guard against some terror, and 
held in his hand a club, as though he were ready 
to use it. 

Presently he said a few words in a harsh voice : 
" You are a Roman," he asked ; " how may I 
know it ? " "I do not know," said Paullinus, 
trying to smile, " unless you will believe my word." 
" What is your business here ? " said the man ; 
" are you a merchant ? " " No," said Paullinus, 
" I have no business, I travel, and I talk with those 
I meet — perhaps I am a teacher — a Christian 
teacher." At this the man's sternness seemed a 
little to relax. " Oh, the new faith ? " he said, 
rather contemptuously ; " well, I have heard of 
it — and it will never spread ; but I am curious to 
know what it really is, and you shall tell me of it." 
But suddenly his angry terrors came upon him 
again, and he said, with a frown, " But where were 
you bound, and whence come you ? " 



THE TEMPLE OF DEATH 385 

Paullinus, with such calmness as he could muster, 
for he felt himself to be in some danger, he scarcely 
knew what, mentioned the names of the villages. 
" Well, you have missed your way," said the man. 
" Why did you come here to the Temple of Death ? " 
Paullinus had a sudden access of dread at the 
words. " Is this the Temple ? " he said ; " it is 
the place I was bidden to avoid." At this the 
man gave a fearful kind of smile, like a flash of 
lightning out of a sombre cloud, and he said, with 
a certain dark pride, " Ay, there are few that come 
willingly ; but now you must abide with me to- 
night — unless," he added, with a savage look, 
" you have a mind to be eaten by wolves." " I 
will certainly stay," said Paullinus, " I am not 
afraid — I serve a very mighty God myself, who 
guards his servants if they guard themselves." 
" Ay, does He ? " said the man, with a flash of 
anger, " then He must needs be strong ; — but I 
wish you no evil," he added in a moment. " I 
think you are a brave man, perhaps a good one — 
I fear you not." " There is no need for you to 
fear me," said Paullinus, " my God is a God of 
peace and love — and indeed," he added with a 
smile, looking at the man's great frame, " I should 
have thought there was little need for you to fear 
any one." This last word seemed to dissolve the 
man's evil mood all at once, for he put away the 
club he held, in a corner of the room, and bade 
Paullinus eat and drink, which he did gladly. The 
meat was a strongly flavoured kind of venison, and 
there was a rough bread, and a drink that seemed 
both sweet and strong, and had the taste of summer 

2B 



386 THE TEMPLE OF DEATH 

flowers. He praised the food, and the man said 
to him, " Ay, I have learnt to suit it to my taste. 
I Hve here in much loneHness, and there is none to 
help me." 

After the meal the man asked him to tell him 
something of the new faith, and Paullinus very 
willingly told him as simply as he could of the 
Way of Christ. 

The mxan listened with a sort of gloomy attention. 
"So it is this," he said at last, " which is taking 
hold of the world ! well, it is pretty enough — a 
good faith for such as live in ease and security, for 
women and children in fair houses ; but it suits 
not with these forests. The god who made these 
great lonely woods, and who dwells in them, is very 
different," — he rose and made a strange obeisance 
as he talked. " He loves death and darkness, and 
the cries of strong and furious beasts. There is 
little peace here, for all that the woods are still — 
and as for love, it is of a brutish sort. Nay, stranger, 
the gods of these lands are very different ; and 
they demand very different sacrifices. They delight 
in sharp woes and agonies, in grinding pains, in 
dripping blood and death-sv/eats and cries of de- 
spair. If these woods were all cut down, and the 
land ploughed up, and peaceful folk lived here in 
quiet fields and farms, then perhaps your simple, 
easy-going God maght come and dwell with them. — 
but now, if he came, he would flee in terror." 

" Nay," said Paullinus, but somewhat sadly, for 
the man's words seemed to have a fearful truth 
about them, " the Father waits long and is kind ; 
the victory of love is slow, but it is sure." 



THE TEMPLE OF DEATH 387 

"It is slow enough ! " said the man ; " these 
forests have grown here beyond the memory of 
man, and they will stand long after you and I have 
been turned to a handful of dust — and so I will 
serve my gods while I live. But you are weary," 
he added, " and may sleep ; fear not any hurt 
from m^e ; and as for the way you speak of, well, 
I will say that I should be content if it had the 
victory. I am sick at heart of the hard rule of 
these gods — but I fear them, and will serve them 
faithfully till I die." 

And then he brought some skins of beasts and 
heaped them in a corner of the room, for Paullinus, 
who lay down gladly, and from mere weariness fell 
asleep. But the priest sat long before the fire in 
thought ; and twice he went to the door and looked 
out, as if he were waiting for some tidings. 

Once the opening of the door aroused Paullinus ; 
and he saw the dark figure of the priest stand in 
the doorway, and over his head and shoulders a 
dark still night, pierced with golden stars ; and 
once again, when he opened the door a second time, 
the pure gush of air into the close room woke Paul- 
linus from a deep sleep ; again he saw the priest 
stand silent in the door, with his hands clasped 
behind him ; and through the door Paullinus could 
see the dim ring of dewy woods, that seemed to 
sleep in quiet dreams ; and over the woods a great 
pale light of dawn that was coming slowly up out 
of the east. 

But Paullinus fell back into sleep again from 
utter weariness, as a man might dive into a pool. 
And when at last he opened his eyes, he saw that 



388 THE TEMPLE OF DEATH 

day was come with an infinite sweetness and fresh- 
ness ; the birds called faintly in the thickets ; and 
the priest was going slowly about his daily task, 
preparing food ; and Paullinus, from where he lay, 
smiled at him, and the priest smiled back, as though 
half ashamed, and presently said, " You have slept 
deeply, sir ; and to sleep as you have done shows 
that a man is brave and innocent." 

Then Paullinus rose, and would have helped him, 
but the man said, " Nay, you are my guest ; and 
besides, I do things in a certain order, as all do 
who live alone, and I would not have any one to 
meddle with me." He spoke gruffly, but there was 
a certain courtesy in his manner. 

Presently the priest asked him to come and eat, 
and they sat together eating in a friendly way. 
The priest was silent, but Paullinus talked of many 
things — and at last the priest said, " I thought I 
loved my loneliness, but it seems that I am pleased 
to have a companion. I believe," he added, " that 
I would be content if you would dwell with me." 
And Paullinus smiled in answer, and said, " Ay, it 
is not good to live alone." 

A little while after Paullinus said that he must 
set out on his way, and that he was very grateful 
for so gentle a welcome ; but the priest said, " Nay, 
but you must see the sights of my house and of 
the temple. Few folk have seen it, and never a 
foreign man. It is not a merry place," he added, 
" but it will do to make a traveller's tale." 

So he led him to the door, and they went out. 
Paullinus saw that the house where he had spent 
the night stood on a little square island, with a deep 



THE TEMPLE OF DEATH 389 

moat all round it, filled with water ; the island was 
all overgrown with bushes and tall plants, except 
that in one place there were some pens where sheep 
and goats were kept ; and a path led down to the 
landing-place where he had crossed it the night 
before. But what at once seized and held the eyes 
and mind of Paullinus was the temple. He thought 
he had never seen so grim a place ; it rose above 
the bushes and above the house. It was of very 
rough stone, all blank of windows, with a roof of 
stone ; the blocks were very large, and Paullinus 
wondered how they had been brought there. In 
front there was a low door, and over it a hideous 
carving, that seemed to Paullinus to be the work 
of devils. Apart from the temple, rising among the 
bushes, stood a rude sculptured figure, with a leer- 
ing evil face, very roughly but vigorously cut, with 
an arm raised as though beckoning people to the 
temple. This figure, of a kind of reddish stone, 
seemed horrible beyond words to Paullinus. It 
seemed to him like a servant of Satan, if not Satan 
himself, frozen into stone. 

The priest looked at Paullinus, who could not 
help showing his horror, with a kind of pride. 
Then he said, " Will you go further ? Will you 
enter the temple with me, and see what is therein ? 
Perhaps you will after all bow your head to the 
gods of the forest." And Paullinus said, " Yes, I 
will go," and he said a silent prayer to the Lord 
Christ that He would guard him well. Another 
path paved with stone led from the landing-place 
to the temple, along which they went slowly ; the 
priest leading. Arrived at the door, the priest 



390 THE TEMPLE OF DEATH 

made another strange obeisance, lifting his hands 
slowly above his head and closing his eyes ; then 
he opened the door into the temple itself. There 
came out a foul and heavy smell that shuddered in 
the nostrils of Paullinus and left him gasping some- 
what for breath. The priest looked at him with 
a sort of curious wonder, which made Paullinus 
determine to go further. 

The temple itself was large and dark, a sickly 
light only filtering in through a hole in the roof. 
The floor v/as paved, and the roof was supported 
by great wooden columns, the trunks of large forest 
trees. The greater part of the building was shut 
off by a large wooden screen, about the height of 
a man, close to them, so that they stood in a kind 
of vestibule. The whole of the building, walls, 
roof, and floor, had been painted at some time or 
other a black colour, which was now faded and 
looked a dark slaty grey. Over the screen in the 
centre was seen the head of what seemed an image, 
very great and horrible. The light, which came 
from an opening immediately above the image, 
showed a horned and bearded head, misshapen 
and grotesque. Possibly at another time and place 
Paullinus m^ight have smiled at the ugly thing ; 
but here, peering at them over the screen, in the 
fetid gloom, it froze the blood in his veins. 

And now behind the screen were strange sounds 
as well, a kind of heavy breathing or snorting, and 
what seemed the scratching of some beast. The 
priest went up to the screen and opened a sort of 
panel in it ; this was followed by a hoarse and 
hideous outcry within, half of fear and half of rage. 



THE TEMPLE OF DEATH 391 

The priest took from an angle of the wall a long 
pole shod with iron, and leaned within the opening, 
saying in a stern tone some words that Paullinus 
did not understand. Presently the noises ceased, 
and the priest, using a great effort, seemed to pull 
or push at something with the pole, and there was 
the sound as of a great gate turning on its hinges. 
Then he drew his head and arms out, and said to 
Paullinus, " We may enter." He then threw a 
door open in the middle of the screen and went in. 
Paullinus followed. 

In front of them stood a great statue on a pedes- 
tal ; the figure of a thing, half-man half-goat, 
crouched as though to spring. The smell was still 
more horrible within, and it became clear to Paul- 
linus that he was in the lair of some ravenous and 
filthy beast. There lay a mess of bones under- 
neath the statue. To the left, in the wall, there 
was a strong oaken door, made like a portcullis, 
which seemed to close the entrance of a den ; some- 
thing seemed to move and stir in the blackness, 
and Paullinus heard the sound of heavy breathing 
within. The priest, still holding the pole in his 
hand, led the way round to the back of the statue. 
Here, set into the wall, were a number of stone 
slabs, with what seemed to be a name upon each, 
rudely carved. 

The priest pointed to these and said, " Those are 
the names of the priests of this shrine. And now," 
he went on, " I will tell you a thing which is in 
my mind — I know not why I should wish to say it 
— but it seems to me that I have a great desire to 
tell you all and keep nothing back ; and I tell 



392 THE TEMPLE OF DEATH 

you this, though you may turn from m_e with shame 
and horror. We have a law that if a man be con- 
demned to death for a certain crime — if he have 
slain one of his kin — he is bound to a tree in the 
forest to be devoured piecemeal by the wolves. 
But if there seem to be cause or excuse for the deed 
that he has done, then he is allowed to purchase 
his life on one condition — he may come to this 
place and slay the priest who serves here, if he 
can, or himself be slain. And if he slay him he 
reigns in his stead until he himself be slain. And 
the rites of this place are these : all of this tribe 
who may be guilty of the slaying of a man by 
secret or open violence without due cause are 
offered here a sacrifice to the god — and that is the 
task that I have done and must do till I am myself 
slain. And here in a den dwells a savage beast — 
I know not its name and its age is very great — 
that slays and devours the guilty. What wonder 
if a man's heart grows dark and cruel here ; I can 
only look into my own heart, black as it is, and 
wonder that it is not blacker. But the gods are 
good to me, and have not cursed me utterly. 

" And now I will tell you that when I saw you 
by the pool, and when you called to me in the 
night, I thought that perchance you had come to 
slay me — and then I saw that you were alone, and 
not guarded as a prisoner would be ; but even then 
my heart was dark, because the god has had no sac- 
rifice for many a month, and seems to call upon me 
for a victim — so I had it in my heart to slay you here. 
And now," he said, " I have opened the door of my 
heart, and you have seen all that is to be seen." 



THE TEMPLE OF DEATH 393 

And then he looked upon Paulhnus as if to know 
his judgment ; and Paulhnus, turning to the priest, 
and seeing that in his heart he desired what was 
better, and abode not willingly in the ways of death, 
said, " Brother, with all my heart I am sorry for 
you — and I would have you turn your heart away 
from these dark and evil gods — who are indeed, I 
think, the very spirits of hell — and turn to the 
Father of mercy of whom I spoke, with whom there 
is forgiveness and love for all His sons, when once 
they turn to Him and ask His help." 

The priest looked very gently at Paulhnus as he 
spoke ; but there came a horrible roaring out of 
the den, and the beast flung himself against the 
bars as if in rage. 

Then the priest said, " For twenty years I have 
heard no speech like this ; for twenty years I have 
lived with death and done wickedness, and all men 
turn from me with fear and loathing, and speak 
not any word to me : I have never looked in a kindly 
human eye, nor felt the hand of a friend within my 
own. Judge between me and my sin. I had a 
brother, an evil man, who made it his pleasure to 
trouble me. I was stronger than he, and he feared 
me. I loved a maiden of our tribe, and she loved 
me ; and when my brother knew it he went about 
to do her a hurt, that it might grieve me. One day 
she went through the forest alone, and never re- 
turned, and I, in madness ranging the wood to find 
her, found the mangled bones of her body. I knew 
it by the poor torn hair — she had been devoured by 
wolves — but burying the bones I saw that the feet 
were tied together with a cord, and then I knew 



394 THE TEMPLE OF DEATH 

that some one had bound her by violence and left 
her to be devoured. 

" Then as I returned from bur3dng her, I came 
upon my brother in a glade of the wood ; and he 
looked upon me with an evil smile, and said, ' Hast 
thou found her ? ' And I knew in my heart what 
he had done, and I slew him where he stood — and 
then I returned and said what I had done. Then 
they imprisoned me — for my brother was older 
than myself, and my enemies said that I had done 
it to win his inheritance — and at last, after long 
consulting, they gave me the choice to be devoured 
of wolves or to become the priest of Death. I 
chose the latter, because I was mad and hated all 
mankind. I came to this place at sundown, and 
my guards left me. I swam the ditch, and knocked 
at the priest's door ; he was an old man and piteous, 
who abhorred his trade — and there I seized him 
and slew him with my hands — he was weak and 
made no resistance — and I flung his body to the 
beast and carved his name. That is my bitter 
story — and since then I have lived, accursed and 
dreaded. These gods are hard taskmasters." He 
made a wild gesture of the hand and turned his 
bright eyes upon Paullinus, who stood aghast. 

" The tale is told," said the priest. '* I who 
have kept silence all these years have babbled 
my story to a stranger. Why did I tell you ? I 
thought that with all your taJk of mercy and for- 
giveness you might have a message for my bitter 
and tired heart — ^but you shrink from me, and are 
silent." 

" Nay," said Paullinus, " shrink from you ! — ^not 



THE TEMPLE OF DEATH 395 

so — ^nay, I cling to j^ou more than ever ; come and 
claim your part in the forgiveness that waits for 
all — ^j'^ou have suffered, you have repented — and the 
God whom I serve has comfort and peace for you 
and for all ; His love is wide and deep — claim your 
share in it." And he took the priest's hand in 
both of his own. 

There was a horrible roaring behind them as they 
stood : the great beast behind them struck at the 
bars, but the priest took no heed. 

** If I could," he said, with his eyes fixed on 
PauUinus' face. 

" Nay then," said Paullinus, " if you would it is 
done already, for He reads the very secrets of the 
heart." 

There broke out a loud fierce crashing sound 
behind them ; the great oaken gate heaved and 
splintered, and a monstrous beast as huge as a 
horse appeared at the mouth of the den ; his small 
head was laid back on his hairy shoulders, his little 
eyes gleamed wickedly, and his red mouth opened 
snarling fiercely. The priest turned, and met the 
rush of the beast full. In a moment he was flung 
to the ground with a dreadful rending sound. 
" Save yourself ! " he cried. The huge brute glared, 
v/ith his foot upon the fallen form, and seemed to 
hesitate whether to attack his second foe. Paul- 
linus, hardly knowing what he did, seized the great 
iron-pointed pole, and with a firmness of strength 
which he had not kno\\Ti himself to possess drove 
it full into the monster's great throat as it opened 
its mouth towards him. It made a wild and 
sickening cry ; it raised one foot as though to 



396 THE TEMPLE OF DEATH 

strike, then it beat the air and struck once at the 
head of the prostrate form ; then, with a gurghng 
sound, spitting out a flood of hot blood, it collapsed, 
rolled slowly on one side. Paullinus, watching it 
intently and still holding the pole, thrust it further 
in with all his might. It quivered all over, and in 
a moment lay still. Paullinus made haste to drag 
the priest out from beneath — ^but he saw that all 
was over ; the last blow of the beast had battered 
in the skull — and besides that the body was horribly 
mangled and crushed. The limbs of the priest 
were heavy and relaxed ; his hands were folded 
together as though in prayer, and he drew one or 
two little fluttering breaths, but never opened his 
eyes. 

Paullinus was like one in a dream at this sudden 
horror ; but he kept his senses ; once or twice the 
great beast moved, and drummed on the pavement 
with a horny paw. So Paullinus drew the pros- 
trate body of the priest outside the screen and 
closed the door. Then he went with swift steps 
out of the temple and to the water's edge ; he drew 
up a little water in his hand, looking into the dark 
and cool moat. Then he came back with a purpose 
in his mind. He sprinkled the water on the poor 
mangled brow ; and then, choosing the name of 
the Apostle whom Jesus most loved, he said, " John, 
I baptize thee, in nomine, &c." It was like a 
prisoner's release ; the straining hands relaxed, and 
with a sigh the new-made Christian presently died. 
" I doubt I have done right," said Paullinus to 
himself. " He was coming to the Saviour very 
swiftly, and I think was at His feet ; and if he was 



THE TEMPLE OF DEATH 397 

not in heart a Christian, the Lord will know when 
he meets Him in the heavenly places." 

When Paullinus went back to the hut he found 
a rough mattock. First he dug a great hole ; the 
earth was black and soft, and water oozed soon 
into the depths ; then with much painful labour he 
dragged the great beast thither, and covered him 
in from the eye of day ; and then he toiled to dig 
a grave for the priest — once he stopped to eat a 
little food, but he w^orked with unusual ease and 
lightness. But the night came down on the forest 
as he finished the grave — for he did not wish that 
the priest should lie within the dreadful temple. 

Then he went back, very weary but not sad ; his 
terrors and distresses had drawn slowly off from 
his mind, as he worked in the still afternoon, under 
the clear sky, all surrounded by woods ; the earth 
seemed like one who had come from a bath, washed 
through and through by the drench of wholesome 
rains, and the smell of the woods was sharp and sweet. 

Paullinus slept quietly that night, feeling very 
close to God ; but in the morning, when the dawn 
was coming up, he was awakened by a shouting 
outside. His sleep had been so deep and still that 
he hardly knew at first where he was, but it all 
came swiftly back to him ; and then the shouting 
was repeated. Paullinus rose to his feet and went 
slowly out. 

On the edge of the water, where the cause wa}^ 
crossed it, he saw two men standing, that from 
their dress seemed to be great chiefs. Behind 
them, with his hands bound, and attached by 
a rope held in the hand of one of the chiefs, was 



398 THE TEMPLE OF DEATH 

a young man of a wild and fierce aspect, in the dress 
of a serf, a rough tunic and leggings. His head 
was bare, and he looked around hirn in dismay, 
like a beast in a trap. Behind, at the edge of 
the clearing, stood four soldiers silent, with bows 
strung and arrows fitted to the string. Over the 
whole group there seemed to be the shadow of a 
stern purpose. At the appearance of Paullinus, 
the two chiefs hurriedly bent together in talk, and 
looked at him with astonishment. Paullinus came 
down to the water's edge, when one of the chiefs 
said, ** We have come for the priest ; where is he ? 
For he must do his office upon this man, who hath 
slain one of his kin by stealth." 

"It is too late," said Paullinus ; " he is dead, 
and waits for burial." 

Then the chiefs seemed again to confer together, 
and one of them, with a strange reverence, said, 
" Then you are the new priest of the temple ? 
And yet it seems strange, for you are not of our 
nation." 

" Nay," said Paullinus, " I am a v/anderer, a 
Roman. It was not I who slew him — it was the 
great beast who lived in the den yonder ; and the 
beast have I slain — but come over and let me tell 
you all the tale." 

So he made haste to put out the bridge, and the 
two chiefs came over in silence, leaving the prisoner 
in the hands of the guards who surrounded him. 
PaulHnus led them to the temple, which he could 
hardly prevail upon them to enter, and showed them 
the dead body, which was a fearful sight enough ; 
then he showed them the broken gate and the 



THE TEMPLE OF DEATH 399 

empty den, and then he led them to the mound 
where the beast lay buried, and offered if they 
would to uncover the body. " Nay, we would not 
see him," said the elder chief in a low voice ; "it 
is enough." 

Paullinus then led them to the hut and told them 
the story from beginning to end. The chiefs looked 
at him with surprise when he told them of the 
beast's death, and one of them said, " I doubt, sir, 
you slew him by Roman magic — for he was exceed- 
ingly strong, and you look not much of a warrior." 
" Nay," said Paullinus, smiling, " I doubt he was 
his own death, as is often the end of evil — he leapt 
upon the pole : 1 did but hold it, and the Lord 
made my hand strong." 

When he had done the story the chiefs spoke to- 
gether a little in a low tone. Then one of them 
said, " This is a strange tale, sir. And it seems to 
us that you must be a man v/hom the gods love, for 
you stayed here a night with the priest — who was 
a fierce man and no friend of strangers — and re- 
ceived no hurt. And then you have slain the 
Hound of Death, unanned. But we will ask you 
to go with us, for we cannot decide so grave a 
matter until we have taken counsel with our tribe. 
Be assured that you shall be used courteously." 

" I will go very willingly," said Paullinus. " My 
God did indeed send me hither to do a work which 
He had prepared for me to do, and I would serve 
His will in all things." 

So they first buried the body of the priest in his 
grave, and then they w^ent together to the village, 
and messages v/ere sent to the chiefs of the tribe 



400 THE TEMPLE OF DEATH 

who came in haste, ten great warriors ; and they 
sat and debated long in low voices. And Paullinus 
sat without wondering that he could feel so calm, 
for he knew that he was in jeopardy. 

So when they had talked a long while they called 
Paullinus into the council, and the oldest chief, an 
ancient warrior with silver hair, much bowed with 
age, told him that they saw that he was a man 
favoured of God. " I hide it not from you," he 
said, " that some of my brethren here would have 
it that death should be your portion, because you 
have meddled with sacred and secret things. But 
I think that it is clear that you have done no wrong, 
or otherwise you would have been slain ; you spoke 
but now of the God you serve, and we would hear 
of Him ; for now that the priest is dead and the 
beast dead, we say with reverence that a cloud is 
lifted from us, and that we have served dark gods 
too long." 

So Paullinus spoke of the Father's love and the 
coming of the Saviour on to the earth ; and when 
he had finished the chiefs thanked him very cour- 
teously, and then they asked him to abide with them 
and speak again of the matter. So Paullinus abode 
there and made many friends, as his manner was. 

Then came a day when the chiefs again held 
council, and they told Paullinus that if he would, 
he should be the priest of the temple and teach 
what he would there, and that the temple should 
be cleansed ; and they said that they would not 
ask him to be the slayer of such as had killed a 
man, for that, they said, seems to belong rather to 
a warrior than a priest. 



THE TEMPLE OF DEATH 40T 

So Paullinus said that he would abide with them, 
but that he must first go and be made a priest after 
his own order ; and he departed, but soon returned, 
and the Temple of Death was made a Church of 
Christians. 

Paullinus is an old man now ; you may see him 
walk at evening beside the water, under the shadow 
of the church. The images have been broken and 
defaced ; but Paullinus often stops beside a mound, 
and thinks of the bones of the great beast that lie 
whitening below^ — and then he stands beside a 
grave which bears the name of John, and knows 
that his brother, that did evil in the days of his 
ignorance, but that suffered sore, will be the first 
to meet him in the heavenly country, with the 
light of God about him ; " and perhaps," says 
Paullinus to himself, " he will bear a palm in his 
hand." 



2C 



THE TOMB OF HEIRI 

In the old days, when the Romans were taking 
Britain for their own, there hved in Cambria a 
great prince called Heiri. He was forty summers 
old ; he had long been wed, but had no son to 
reign after him. Many times had he fought with 
the Romans, but his tribe had been driven slowly 
backward to the northern mountains ; here for a 
time he dwelt in some peace, but the Romans crept 
ever nearer ; and Heiri, who was a brave and 
generous prince and a great warrior, was sore 
afflicted, seeing the end that must come. He dwelt 
in a high valley of moorland, where his tribe kept 
such herds as yet remained to them. Heiri often 
asked himself in what he and his people had wronged 
the gods, that they should be thus vexed ; for he 
was, as it seemed, like a wild beast with his back 
to a wall, fighting with innumerable foes ; to the 
north and east and south and west lay great moun- 
tains, and behind them to west and north lay 
the sea ; to south and east the Romans held the 
land, so that the Cambrians were penned in a 
corner. 

One day heavy news came ; a great army of the 
Romans had come by sea to the estuary in the 
south. The next day the scouts saw them march- 
ing up the pass, like ants, in countless numbers, 

with a train of baggage ; and the day after, when 

402 



THE TOMB OF HEIRI 403 

the sun went down, the watch-fires burnt in a long 
line across the southern moorland, and the sound 
of the horns the Romans blew came faintly upon 
the wind ; all day the tribesmen drove in their 
cattle up to the great camp, that la^^ on a low 
hill in the centre of the vale. Heiri held a council 
with his chiefs, and it was determined that next 
day they should give them battle. 

That night, when Heiri was sitting in his hut, 
his beloved wife beside him, there came to see him 
the chief priest of the tribe ; he was an old man, 
hard and cruel, and Heiri loved him not ; and he 
hated Heiri secretly, being jealous of his power ; 
he came in, his white priestly robe bound about 
the waist with a girdle of gold ; and Heiri rose to 
do him honour, making a sign to his wife that she 
should leave them. So she withdrew softly ; then 
the priest sat down. He asked first of Heiri whether 
it was determined to fight on the morrow ; and 
Heiri said that it was so determined. Then the 
priest said, " Lord Heiri, to-morrow is the feast of 
the God of Death ; and he claims a victim, if we 
are to be victorious." Now Heiri hated the sacri- 
fice of men, and the priest knew it ; and so for a 
while Heiri sat in silence, frowning, and beating his 
foot upon the ground, while the priest watched 
him mth bright and evil eyes. Then Heiri said, 
" To-morrow must man}/ men, both valiant and 
timid, die ; surety that were enough for the god ! " 
But the priest said, " Nay, my lord, it is not enough ; 
the law saith that unless a victim should offer 
himself, the priests should choose a victim ; and 
the victim must be goodly ; for we are in an evil 



404 THE TOMB OF HEIRI 

case." Then Heiri looked at the priest and said, 
" Whom have ye chosen ? " for he saw that the 
priests had named a victim among themselves. 
So the priest said, " We have named Nefri — ^be 
content." 

Now Nefri was a lad of fifteen summers, cousin 
to Heiri ; his father was long dead, and Heiri loved 
the boy, who was brave and gracious, and had hoped 
in his heart that Nefri would succeed him as prince 
of the tribe. Then Heiri was very wroth, and said, 
" Lord priest, that may not be ; Nefri is next of 
kin to myself, and will grow up a might}^ warrior ; 
and he shall be chief after me, if the gods grant 
liim life ; look you, to-morrow we shall lose many 
mighty men ; and it may be that I shall myself 
fall ; for I have been heavy-hearted for many days, 
and I think that the gods are calling me — and 
Nefri we cannot spare." 

Then the priest said, " Lord Heiri, the gods choose 
whom they will by the mouth of their priests ; it 
were better that Nefri should perish than that the 
people should be lost ; and, indeed, the gods have 
spoken ; for I prayed that the victim should be 
shown me, hoping that it might be some common 
man ; but hardly had I done my prayer, when 
Nefri came to my hut to bring an offering ; and 
my heart cried out, * Arise, for tliis is he.' The 
gods have chosen him, not I ; and Nefri must die 
for the people." 

Then Heiri was grievously troubled ; for he rever- 
enced the gods and feared the priests. And he 
rose up, with anger and holy fear striving within 
him ; and he said, " Prepare then for the sacrifice ; 



THE TOMB OF HEIRI 405 

only tell not Nefri — I myself will bring him — it 
may be that the gods will provide another victim." 
For he hoped within his heart that the Romans 
might attack at dawn, so that the sacrifice should 
tarry. 

Then the priest rose up and said, " Lord Heiri, 
I would it were otherwise ; but we must in all 
things obey the gods ; the sacrifice is held at dawn, 
and I will go and set all things in order." So Heiri 
rose and bowed to the priest ; but he knew in his 
heart that the priest sorrowed not, but rather exulted 
in the victim he had chosen. Then Heiri sent word 
that Nefri should come to him, and presently Nefri 
came in haste, having risen from his bed, with the 
warm breath of sleep about him. And there went 
as it were a sword through Heiri 's heart, to see the 
boy so fair and gracious and so full of love and 
bravery. 

Then Heiri made the boy sit beside Mm, and 
embraced him with his arm ; and then he said, 
" Nefri, I have sent for you in haste, for there is a 
thing that I must tell you ; to-morrow we fight the 
Romans, and something tells me in my heart that 
it will be our last fight ; whether we shall conquer 
or be conquered I know not, but it is a day of doom 
for many — and now hearken. I have prayed many 
times in my heart for a son, but no son is given me ; 
but I hoped that you would reign after me, if indeed 
there shall be any people left to rule ; and if it so 
fall out, remember that I spoke with you to-night, 
and bade you be brave and just, loving your people 
and fearing the gods ; and forget not that I loved 
you well." 



4o6 THE TOMB OF HEIRI 

And Nefri, half in awe and half in eager love 
for the great prince his cousin, said, " I will not 
forget." Then Heiri kissed him on the cheek and 
said, " Dear lad, I know it. And now 3^ou must 
sleep, for there is a sacrifice at dawn, and you 
must be there with me ; but before you sleep — 
and I would have ^^ou sleep here in my hut 
to-night— pray to the father of the gods to guide 
and strengthen me — ^for we are as naught in his 
hands, and I have a grievous choice to make — a 
choice between honour and love — and I know not 
which is the stronger." 

Then Heiri spread a bearskin on the floor and 
bade Nefri sleep, and he him.self sat long in thought 
looking upon the embers. And it was quiet in the 
hut — only he saw by the firelight the boy's bright 
eye watching him, till he chid him lovingly, saying, 
" Sleep, Nefri, sleep." And Heiri himself lay down 
to sleep, for he knew that a weary day of fighting 
lay before him. 

But the priest went to the other chiefs and spake 
with each of them, saying that the gods had chosen 
Nefri for the victim of the sacrifice, but that Heiri 
would fain forbid it. But the priest did worse 
than that, for he told many of the tribesmen the 
same story, and though they were sorry that Nefri 
should die, yet they feared the gods exceedingly, and 
did not think to dispute their will. 

About an hour before the dawn, when there was 
a faint light in the air, and the breeze began to blow 
chill from the hills, and the stars went out one by 
one, the chiefs began to gather their men ; and there 
was sore discontent in the camp ; all night had 



THE TOMB OF HEIRI 407 

the rumour spread beside the fires and in the huts 
that Heiri would resist the will of the gods and save 
Nefri fron death ; and many of the soldiers told 
the chiefs that if this were so they would not fight ; 
so the chiefs assembled in silence before the hut 
of Heiri, for they feared him greatly, but they feared 
the gods more, and they had resolved that Nefri 
should die. 

While they stood together Heiri came suddenly 
out among them. He carried a brand in his hand, 
which lit up his pale face and bright armour ; and 
he came like a man risen from the dead. 

Then the oldest chief, by name Gryf, drew near, 
and Heiri asked him of the Romans ; and the chief 
said that they were not stirring yet. Then Heiri held 
up his hand ; every now and then came the crying 
of cocks out of the camp, but in the silence was 
heard the faint sound of trumpets from the moor- 
land, and Heiri said, " They come." 

Then Gryf, the chief, said, " Then must the 
sacrifice be made in haste," and he turned to Heiri 
and said, " Lord Heiri, it is rumoured in the 
camp that Nefri is the chosen victim, but that you 
seek to save him." And Heiri looked sternly at 
him and said, " And wherefore are the purposes 
of the gods revealed ? Lo, I will bring Nefri 
myself to the sacrifice, and we shall see what will 
befaU." 

Then the chiefs were glad in their hearts and said, 
" Lord Heiri, it is well. The ways of the gods 
are dark, but they rule the lives of men, and who 
shall say them nay ? " And Heiri said, " Ay, 
they are dark enough." 



4o8 THE TOMB OF HEIRI 

Then he made order that the scouts should go 
forth from the camp ; and while he yet spake the 
procession of priests in their white robes passed 
like ghosts through the huts on their way to the 
temple. And Heiri said, " We must follow," and 
he called to Nefri ; but the boy did not answer. 
Then Heiri went within and found him sleeping 
very softly, with his face upon his hand ; and he 
looked upon him for a moment, and then he put 
his hand upon his head ; and the boy rose up, 
and Heiri said, "It is time, dear Nefri — and pray 
still for me, for the gods have not showed me light." 
So Nefri marvelled, and tried to make a prayer ; but 
he was filled with wonder at the thought of the sacri- 
fice, for he had never been present at a sacrifice 
before — and he was curious to see a man slain — for 
the sight of death in those grievous years of battle 
had lost its terrors even for children. So Nefri 
rose up ; and Heiri smiled upon him and took the 
boy's hand, and the two went out together. 

Then they came with the chiefs through the 
camp. The precinct of the goddess was at the upper 
end, to the north ; it was a thick grove of alders, 
through which no eye could pierce ; and it was 
approached by a slanting path so that none could 
see into the precinct. 

So presently they came to the place and entered 
in ; and Heiri felt the boy's hand cold within his 
own ; but it was not fear, for Nefri was fearless, 
but only eagerness to see what would be done. 

They passed inside the precinct ; none was allowed 
to enter except the priests and the chiefs and certain 
captains. It was a dolorous place in truth. All 



THE TOMB OF HEIRT 409 

round ran a wall of high slabs of slate. At the 
upper end, on a pedestal, stood the image of the 
god, a rude and evil piece of handiwork. It was 
a large and shapeless figure, with hands outspread ; 
in the head of it glared two wide and cruel eyes, 
painted with paint, red-rimmed and horrible. The 
pedestal was stained with rusty stains ; and at 
the foot lay a tumbled heap that was like the body 
of a man, as indeed it was — for the victim was left 
lying where he fell, until another victim was slain. 
All around the body sprouted rank grasses out of 
the paved floor. The priests stood round the 
image ; the chief priest in front holding a bowl 
and a long thin knife. Two of them held torches 
which cast a dull glare on the image. The chiefs 
arranged themselves in lines on each side ; and 
Heiri, still holding Nefri by the hand, walked up 
to within a few feet of the image, and there stood 
silent. 

Then the chief priest made a sign, and at that 
two other priests came out with a large box of wood 
and shovels ; and they took the bones of the victim 
up and laid them in the box, in which they clattered 
as they fell — and Nefri watched them curiously, 
but shuddered not ; and when the poor broken 
body was borne away, then Nefri began to look 
round for the victim, but the priests began a h^'mn ; 
their loud sad voices rang out very strangely on 
the chilly air — and the tribesmen without, hearing 
the sound, trembled for fear and cast themselves 
upon the ground. 

Then there was a silence ; and the chief priest 
came forward, and made signs to Heiri to draw 



410 THE TOMB OF HEIRI 

near, and Heiri advanced, and said to Nefri as he 
did so, " Now, child, be brave." And Nefri looked 
up at Heiri with parted lips ; and then it came 
suddenly into his mind that he was indeed to be 
the victim ; but he only looked up with a piteous 
and inquiring glance at Heiri ; and Heiri drew 
him to the pedestal. Then there was a terrible 
silence, and the hearts of the chiefs beat fast for 
fear and horror ; and some of them turned away 
their faces, and the tears came to their eyes. 

Then the priest raised his knife, while Nefri 
watched him ; but Heiri stepped forward and 
said, " Lord priest, I have chosen. Hold thy hand. 
The law saith that a victim must die, and that 
one may offer himself to die ; ye have chosen Nefri, 
for none has offered himself. But I bid thee hold ; 
for here I offer myself as a victim to the god." 

Then there was an awful silence, and the priest 
looked fiercely and evilly upon Nefri, and made 
as though he would have smitten him ; but Heiri 
seized the priest's hand in both his own, and with 
great strength drove the knife into his own breast, 
stood for a moment, then swayed and fell. And 
as he lay he said, " M}^ father, I come, the last 
victim, at the shrine ; " and then he drew out the 
knife, sobbed and died. But the chiefs crowded 
round to look upon him ; and Gryf said, " We 
are undone ; our king is dead, and who shall 
lead us ? " 

Then he scowled evilly upon the priests, and 
said, " This is your work, men of blood — ^and as 
ye have slain our king, ye shall fight for us to-day, 
and see if the god will protect you ; then, if he saves 



THE TOMB OF HEIRI 411 

you, we shall know that you have spoken truly — 
and if he saves you not then ye are false priests." 
And the chiefs cried assent ; and Gryi, the eldest 
chief, commanded that weapons should be given 
them, and that they should be guarded and fight 
with the vanguard. But Nefri cast himself upon 
the body of Heiri and wept sore. But while they 
stood came a scout in terror, and told them that 
the Romans were indeed advancing. So the temple 
was emptied in a moment ; and Nefri sat by the 
body of the dead and looked upon it. But the 
chiefs hastened to the wall of the camp ; and it 
was now day ; in the light that fell pale and cold 
from the eastern hills they saw the Romans creep- 
ing across the moor, in black dots and patches, 
and the sound of the horns drew nearer. 

Then they arrayed themselves, and went out 
in the white morning ; and the women watched 
from the wall. But Heiri's wife was told the tale, 
and went to the temple, but dared not enter, for 
no woman might set foot therein ; and she wailed 
sitting at the gate, calHng upon Heiri to come forth ; 
but Heiri lay on his back before the image, the blood 
flowing from his breast, while Nefri held his head 
upon his knee. 

Then went the battle very evilly for the tribe ; 
little by little they were driven back upon the 
camp ; and they were like sheep without a shep- 
herd — ^and still the chiefs hoped in the help of the 
god ; but the priests were smitten down one by 
one, and last of all the chief priest fell, his bowels 
gusliing from a wound in his side, and cursed the 
god and died cursing. 



412 THE TOMB OF HEIRI 

Then the heavens overclouded : blacker and 
blacker the clouds gathered, with a lurid redness 
underneath like copper ; till a mighty storm fell 
upon them, just as the Cambrians broke and fled 
back to the camp, and watched the steady advance 
of the Roman line, with the eagles bowing and nod- 
ding as they swept over the uneven moor. 

Then suddenly they were aw^are of a strange 
thing. Whence it came they knew not, but sud- 
denly under the camp wall there appeared the figure 
of a man in armour, on a white horse ; it was the 
form of Heiri as they had often seen him ride forth 
on his white charger to battle ; and behind him 
seemed to be a troop of dark and shadowy horsemen. 
Heiri seemed to turn round, and raise his sword 
in the air, as he had often done in life ; and then, 
with a great rending of the heavens, and a mighty 
crash of thunder, the troop of horse swept down 
upon the Roman line. Then came a fearful sound 
from the moorland ; and those who gazed from the 
wall saw the Romans waver and turn ; and in a 
moment they were in flight, melting away in the 
moor, as stones that roll from a cliff after a frost ; 
and all men held their breath in silence ; for the}^ 
saw the Romans flying and none to pursue, except 
that some thought that they saw the white horse 
ride hither and thither, and the flash of the waving 
sword of Heiri. 

There followed a strange and dreadful night ; 
the list of warriors was called and many were 
absent ; from hour to hour a few wounded men 
crawled in ; and in the morning, seeing that the 
Romans were not near at hand, they sent out a 



THE TOMB OF HEIRI 413 

party with horses to bring in the wounded and 
the dead ; all the priests were among the slain ; 
those of the chiefs that were alive held a meeting 
and resolved that the camp must now be held, for 
the Romans would attack the next day ; and the}' 
sent the women and children, with the herds, away 
to a secret place in the mountains, all but Heiri's 
wife, who would not leave the camp. 

Then the other chiefs would have made Gryf, 
the old chief, prince of the tribe ; but he refused 
it, saying that Heiri had wished Nefri to be chief, 
and that none but Nefri should succeed. So search 
was made for Nefri, and he Vv^as found in Heiri's 
hut with Heiri's wife ; he had stayed beside the 
body till it grew stiff and cold and the eyes had 
glazed ; and then he had feared to be alone with it, 
and had crept away. So they put a crown upon 
Nefri's head, and each of the chiefs in turn knelt 
before him and kissed his hand ; and Nefri bore 
himself proudly but gently, as a prince should, 
rising as each chief approached ; and then he was 
led out before the people, and they were told that 
Nefri was prince by the wish of Heiri ; and no 
one disputed the matter. 

Then in the grey dawn a scout came in haste and 
said that three Romans were approaching the 
camp, and that one was a herald ; and the old chief 
asked Nefri what his will was ; and the boy looked 
him in the face, and said, " Let them be brought 
hither." So the chiefs were again summoned, and 
the Romans came slowly into the camp. The 
herald came in front, and he was followed by an 
officer of high rank, as could be seen from his apparel 



414 THE TOMB OF HEIRI 

and the golden trappings of the horse that bore 
him ; and another officer followed behind ; and 
the herald, who knew something of the Cambrian 
language, said that this was the Lord Legate him- 
self, and that he was come to make terms. 

The chiefs looked at each other in silence, for 
they knew that the Romans must needs have taken 
the camp that day if they had assaulted it. The 
Legate was a young man with a short beard, very 
much burnt by the sun, and bearing himself like 
a great gentleman. He looked about him with a 
careless and lordly air ; and when they came into 
the presence of the chiefs, the three dismounted ; 
and the Legate looked round to see which was the 
prince ; then the old chief put Nefri forward, and 
said to the herald, " Here is our king." And the 
Legate bowed to Nefri, and looked at him in sur- 
prise ; and the herald said in the Cambrian language 
to Nefri that the Legate was fain to arrange a truce, 
or indeed a lasting peace, if that were possible. 

Then the old chief said to Nefri, " My lord, ask 
him wherefore the Legate has come ; " and Nefri 
asked the herald, and the herald asked the Legate ; 
then the Legate said, smiling, to the herald, " Tell 
him anything but the truth — say that it is our 
magnanimity ; " and then he added in a lower 
tone, turning to the other officer, " though the 
truth is that the men will not dare to attack the 
place after the rout of yesterday ; " and the Legate 
added to the herald, " Say that the Romans respect 
courage, and have seen that the Cambrians are 
worthy foes, and we would not press them hard ; 
it is a peaceful land of allies that we desire, and not 



THE TOMB OF HEIRI 415 

a land conquered and made desolate." So the 
herald repeated the words. 

Then the old chief bade Nefri say that they 
must have time to consider, adding that it would 
not be well to seem eager for peace. Then he said 
to the other chiefs, " Yet this is our salvation." 
So they conferred together, and at last it was de- 
cided to tell the Legate that they would be friends 
and allies, but that the boundaries of the land 
must be respected, and that the Romans must 
withdraw beyond the boundaries. And this the 
Legate accepted, and it was determined that all 
the land that could be seen from the camp should 
be left to the Cambrians, and that the mountains 
should be as a v/all to them ; and this too the 
Legate approved. 

So in the space of an hour the Cambrians were 
relieved of their foes, and were in peace in their 
own land. And the Legate was royally enter- 
tained ; but before he went he asked, through the 
herald, where the great warrior was who had led 
the last charge on the day before, for he had taken 
him to be the prince of the land. Then the old 
chief said, "He is sick and may not come forth." 
Then the Legate rode away, and Nefri rode a little 
way with him to do him honour, and after courteous 
greetings they departed. 

Then the old chief and Nefri talked long to- 
gether, and they determined what they would do. 

Then the people were assembled, and Nefri 
spoke first, and said that he was young and could 
not put words together ; but he added that the 
old chief knew his will and would announce it. 



4i6 THE TOMB OF HEIRI 

Then the old chief stood forward and told the 
people the story of Heiri's death and how he had 
died for the people ; and then he told them that he 
had made the priests fight, and that the gods had 
surely shown that they were false priests, for they 
were slain, and the gods had not protected them, 
and that Nefri was prince by the will of Heiri. 

And then he said that Heiri with his latest breath 
had said that he should be the last victim — and 
that thus it should be ; " for Heiri," he said, " has 
become a god indeed and fought for us, and has con- 
quered the Romans, and, therefore," he said, " the 
Lord Nefri has decreed that the precinct of the 
god should not indeed be destroyed — for that were 
impious ; but that a great mound should be raised 
over the place, and that it should be the tomb of 
Heiri, and that peaceful offerings should be made 
there, and that it should be kept as a day of festival ; 
and that Nefri himself should be priest as well as 
prince, and his successors for ever." 

And the people all applauded, for they had 
dreaded the bloody sacrifices ; and the next day 
and for many days they laboured until over the 
v/hole precinct they had raised a mighty mound, 
burying the image of the god ; and for Heiri's 
body they made a chamber of stone, and they laid 
him therein, with his face upward to the sky, and 
made great lamentation over him. 

When all things were in order a solemn feast was 
held ; and Nefri on the top of the mound made a 
sacrifice of fruits and milk, and blessed the people 
in the name of Heiri ; and he made order that to 
make the place more blessed, all weddings should 



THE TOMB OF HEIRI 417 

thenceforth be celebrated upon the mound, so that 
it should be the precinct of life and not of death. 
And the people rejoiced. 

That night Nefri slept in the hut of Heiri ; and 
at the dead time of darkness, when all was silent 
in the camp, except for the pacing of the sentry 
to and fro, Nefri awoke, and saw in the hut the 
form of Heiri standing, only brighter and fairer 
than when he lived ; and he looked upon Nefri 
with a smile as though his heart was full of joy ; 
then he came near and said, in a voice like the 
voice of a distant fall of v/ater, " Nefri, dear child, 
thou hast done well and wisely ; be just and 
merciful and loving to all ; and rule with diligence, 
and grieve not." 

Then Nefri would have asked him of the place 
wherein his spirit abode, but could not find words ; 
for he was full of wonder, though not afraid. But 
Heiri smiled again, as though he knew his thoughts, 
and said, '" Ask me not that, for I may not tell ; 
but only this I may tell you, that no man who 
has lived wisely and bravely need fear the passage ; 
it is but a flying shadov/ on the path, like a cloud on 
the hill ; and then he stands all at once in a fairer 
place ; neither need he fear that he lays aside with 
the body the work and labour of life ; for he works 
and labours more abundantly, and his labour is 
done in joy, without fear or heaviness ; and for 
all such spirits is there high and true labour wait- 
ing. Therefore, Nefri, fear not ; and though I 
cannot come to thee again — for thou shalt live 
and be blest — yet will I surely await thee yonder." 

And then there came a darkness, and the form of 

2D 



41 8 THE TOMB OF HEIRI 

Heiri seemed to fade gradually away, as though he 
were withdrawn along some secret path ; and there 
went others with him. And Nefri slept. 

And in the morning came Heiri's wife, and said 
to Nefri that Heiri had stood beside her in the night 
and comforted her ; " and I know," she said, 
" that he lives and waits for me." 

So the land had peace ; and Nefri ruled wisely 
and did justice among the mountains by the sea. 



CERDA 

There was once a city of Gaul named Ilitro, a 
heathen city. It was encircled by a strong wall, 
with towers and a moat. There was a drawbridge, 
for carts to enter the city, which was drawn up 
at night, for the country was often disturbed by 
warlike bands ; beside the great drawbridge was 
a little bridge, which could be lowered and drawn 
up as well ; the great bridge was hauled up at 
sundown, and no cart might enter the city after 
that time ; but the little bridge could be lowered 
till midnight for a traveller, if he was honest. 

The tower vv^as kept by a porter named Cerda, 
a rough, strong man, who had an impediment in 
his speech, and spake with few ; he lived all alone 
in the tower. There were two rooms ; in the lower 
room were the weights which drew up the bridge, 
and a wheel which wound up the chains, with 
another wheel for the smaller bridge, and a fire- 
place where the porter cooked his food ; in the room 
above, which was approached by a ladder, there 
was a table and a chair, and a bed of boards with 
straw upon it, where he slept. The windows were 
guarded by shutters, and in winter time it was 
sorely cold in the tower ; but the porter heeded 
it not, for he was a strong and rough man ; he had 
a wild air, and his long shaggy locks fell on his 

shoulders. But though he spake little and few 

419 



420 CERDA 

spoke to him, he had a loving heart full of tender 
thoughts which he could not put into words. He 
was fond of flowers and green trees, and would some- 
times walk in the woods that came up to the castle 
wall, in springtime, with a secret joy in the scent 
of the flowers and their soft bright heads ; he liked 
to watch the wild animals, and the birds had no 
fear of him, for he fed them often with crumbs 
and grain ; and they would come on his window- 
ledge and chirp for food. Sometimes a child who 
passed the bridge would smile at him, and he would 
smile back and be glad ; to some children whom 
he knew he would shyly give simple presents — 
carts carved out of wood, or a wooden sword ; but 
he was so rough and uncouth a man that their 
elders were not pleased that he should speak with 
them ; and indeed most people spoke of him as of 
one who could be trusted indeed to do hard toil 
punctually like a beast of burden, but whose mind 
was not wholly sound, but like that of a dog or ox. 
But he did his duty so faithfully, and was more- 
over so strong and fearless, if there was any trouble- 
some comer to deal with, that he was held to be 
useful in his place. He had no courtesy for gro-^AOi 
men, who heeded him no more than if he had 
been a machine ; but he was kind and gentle with 
women and maidens, and would carry their burdens 
for them into the city, as far as he might — for he 
was forbidden to go out of sight of the bridge. 

One day, indeed, he had some talk to a grave, 
quiet man, a traveller, who came like a merchant 
to the city, and yet seemed to have no business to 
do. He was indeed a Christian priest, who was 



CERDA 421 

on his way to the West ; for there were then a 
few scattered congregations of Christians in Gaul, 
though the faith was not yet known through the 
land. And the priest, seeing something wistful in 
the rude porter's eye, something that seemed 
dumbly to ask for love, asked him if he prayed ; 
and the porter with a stammering tongue said some 
words of the gods of the land ; but the priest, who 
loved to let the good seed fall even by the wayside, 
told him of the Father of all, and of the Divine 
Son who came to teach the world the truth, and 
was slain by wicked men. 

Cerda felt a strange hope in his heart, half pity 
and half joy ; and the priest told him. that any man 
in any place could speak to the Father when he 
would, and he repeated to him a prayer that he 
might say ; but Cerda forgot all the prayer except 
the first two words, Our Father, and, indeed, he did 
not understand the rest. But he would say those 
words over and over as he went about his work, 
and he would add, out of his own mind, a wish that 
he might see the Father ; for he thought that He 
might some day come to the city, to see His sons 
there — for the priest had told him that all men were 
His sons. So the porter kept watch for the Father's 
coming ; and he hoped that he might know Him 
if He came. 

Now one day there was a great storm of rain and 
wind. The wind beat on the tower, and the rain 
rustled in the moat ; and Cerda at sundown drew 
up the dripping bridges, and made all safe, knowing 
that he would not be disturbed again that night. 
He sat long that night listening to the wind, which 



422 CERDA 

seemed to have a sad and homeless voice in it, and 
then he remembered suddenly that he had not eaten, 
and he began to prepare his food. He had a little 
piece of meat in the house, which a citizen had 
given him, and bread, and a few berries which he 
had gathered in the wood ; so he began to cook 
the meat ; and it was about midnight, and the 
storm was fiercer than ever ; when in a pause in 
the gust he thought he heard a cry out of the wood 
across the moat. He listened, but it came not 
again, and so he fell to his cooking. Then all at 
once the wind stopped, and he heard the rain whisper 
on the wall, when suddenly came the cry again, a 
very faint cry, like the crjdng of a child. He threw 
open the shutter of the window that looked to the 
wood, and in the glimmering dark, for there was a 
sickly light from the moon which laboured among 
the clouds, he thought he saw a little figure stand 
on the edge of the moat. It was dreary enough 
outside, but he went to the wheel and let the small 
bridge down, and then he went to the little gate 
and crossed the slippery plank with care. 

There, near the lip of the moat, stood a little 
child, a boy that seemed to be about ten years old, 
all drenched and shivering, with his face streaming 
with rain. Cerda did not know the child, but 
asked him, as well as he could for his stammering 
speech, what he was doing there and what he de- 
sired. The child seemed frightened, and covered 
his face with his hands ; but Cerda drew his hands 
away, not unkindly, and felt how cold and wet the 
little arms were. Then the child said that he had 
wandered from the way, and that seeing a light 



CERDA 423 

he had come near, and had found himself on the 
edge of the moat, and had cried out in case any one 
might hear him. Then Cerda asked him again 
what he was doing ; and the child said timidly that 
he was about his father's business. Cerda was 
vexed that a father should be so careless of his 
child, but he could not understand from the child 
what the business might be. 

So at last he said that the child must come into 
the tower with him, and that he would give him 
shelter for the night, and that in the morning he 
would make search for his father. But it was not 
with a very good grace that he said it, because he 
was now himself wetted ; moreover, he was weary, 
and would fain have eaten his meal and slept un- 
disturbed. Then the child shrank back from the 
slippery plank, so Cerda lifted him in his arms and 
carried him across. Then he pulled up the bridge 
again and shut the door, but the child seemed ill 
at ease. So Cerda did what he could to cheer him, 
wrung the water from his clothes and hair and 
covered him with a cloak and made him sit by the 
fire. Then he gave him of his own meat and drink, 
and brought the berries, bidding him see how fair 
they were. And the child ate and drank, looking 
at Cerda with wide open eyes and saying nought. 

He looked to Cerda a frail and weakly child, and 
his wonder and even anger increased at those that 
had let such a child be about at that hour ; and 
then he saw that the child was weary, so he carried 
him up the ladder, still wrapped in the cloak, and 
laid him on his bed and bid him sleep ; and then 
he went down softly to satisfy his own hunger, and 



424 CERDA 

was surprised to see that the food was not dimin- 
ished but rather seemed increased. So Cerda ate 
and drank, once or twice ascending the ladder to 
see if the child slept. And when at last he seemed 
to sleep, then Cerda himself went up and sat in his 
chair and thought that he v/ould sleep too ; but 
before sleep cam.e upon him he said his words of 
prayer many times over, and added his further 
prayer that he might see the Father. 

But while he did so it came into his mind how 
often he had said the same thing, and 3^et that 
nothing had happened to bless him ; and he thought 
that the old priest had told him that the Father 
alwa^'s listened to the voice of His sons ; but then 
he bethought him that the Father had so many 
sons, and so wide a land to see to — though he only 
pictured the world as a few villages and towns like 
his own, with a greater town called Rome some- 
where in the East — that he comforted himself by 
thinking that the Father had not had time to visit 
his city, and still less to visit one so humble as 
himself ; and then a fear camic into his mind that 
among the travellers who had passed the Father 
might have passed and he had not recognised him. 

Then at last Cerda slept, his head down upon his 
breast, and the wind died down outside and left a 
breathless stillness, save for the drops that fell 
from the eaves of the tower ; and then he dreamed 
a very strange dream. He thought that he was 
walking in a wood, and came upon a great open 
space, down into which descended a wide staircase 
out of the sk3^ It was all dark and cloudy at the 
top, but the clouds were lit with a fierce inner light 



CERDA 425 

that touched the edges, as in a v/inter sunset, with 
a hue of flame. From the cloud emerged a figure, 
at first dim, hke a wreath of cloud, but slowly de- 
fining itself into the shape of a man, who came 
down slowly and serenely, looking about him as he 
stepped with a quiet greatness ; when he came near 
the bottom of the ladder he beckoned Cerda to 
approach, who came trembling ; but the other smiled 
so tenderly that Cerda forgot his fears and fell on 
his knees at the staircase foot ; and the man went 
downn to him. and said, " Cerda, th}/ prayers are 
heard, and th}^ patience is noted ; and thou shalt 
indeed see the Father." And as he said the words 
a great ray of light cam.e from the cloud and seemed 
to brighten all the place. 

Cerda woke with a start, the voice still sounding 
in his ears ; woke to find the room all alight — and 
he thought for a mioment that it was broad day, 
and that he had for the first time neglected liis duty 
and left the bridge unclosed. But in a moment 
he saw that it was not the light of day, but a very 
pure and white radiance, such as the moon makes 
on the face of a still pool in woods, seen afar from 
a height. The whole room was lit b}^ it, so that he 
could see the beams of the roof and the rough 
stones of the wall. Then he saw that the child had 
risen from the bed, and that the radiance seemed 
brightest all about him ; it was the same face, but 
all brightened and glorified ; and the child seemed 
to be clad in a dim white robe of a soft and cloudlike 
texture. And then all at once Cerda felt that he 
was in the presence of a very high and hoty m3/stery, 
such as he had hardly dreamed the world contained, 



426 CERDA 

and it came strangely into his mind, with a shock 
of awe and almost horror, that this was the child 
to whom he had spoken impatiently, whom he had 
fed and tended, and whose body he had carried in 
his arms ; and he fell on his knees and hid his 
face and could not look on the child's face. 

Then he heard a very low voice that was yet so 
clear that Cerda felt it would be heard all through 
the city, that said, " Cerda, good and faithful 
servant of God, thou hast believed and therefore 
hast thou seen," and " He that hath seen Me hath 
seen the Father." 

Then there came into Cerda 's mind a great rush 
of beautiful thoughts ; it was as though the tower 
had burst forth into bloom and was all filled with 
lilies and roses. He knew that all men were sons 
of the Father, and that the Father waited for them 
to come to Him ; and he saw that each man's life 
was a path which led to the Father, and that the 
rougher the path was the more surely did it conduct 
them ; and he saw too, though he could not have 
said it to another, that it mattered not how or 
where a man lived, or how humble or even hateful 
his task might be, since the Father knew best what 
each of His sons needed, and placed him where he 
could best find the way ; and he saw, too, that 
those who seemed to wander in misery or even 
wickedness, were being secretly drawn to the 
Father's heart all the time ; all tliis he saw, and 
many other high and holy things which it is not 
possible for human lips to speak. But he knew in 
his heart that a peace was given him which nothing, 
not even the heaviest affliction, could ever trouble 



CERDA 427 

again. And then the Hght died out ; and looking 
up he saw the child once more, but now very faintly, 
as though far off but yet near ; and then all was 
dark. And Cerda slept the sleep of a little child. 
And in the morning when he woke, he knew at once 
that the world was a different place. Hunger, cold, 
and weariness were but like clouds that hid the sun 
for a season ; but the vision was the truth. And 
he went about his daily toil with so joyful a heart 
that it seemed as though his feet were winged. 

And that day there came by an old citi2:en, whom 
Cerda had heard by report was held to be a Chris- 
tian ; and he looked upon Cerda for a moment in 
silence, with a kind of wonder in his face. But 
Cerda could find no words to tell him what had 
befallen him, till the old man said, " Can it be, 
Cerda, that you know the truth ? for there seems 
to be something in your face which makes me ask 
you." And Cerda found words to say that though 
he knew but little of Christ, yet he believed in Him. 
" Oh, it matters not," said the other, " what we 
know of Christ, so long as we know Him ; but you, 
my brother," he added, " look as you might look 
if you had seen the Lord face to face." " I think 
I have," said Cerda. And the old man doubted 
not, but went away pondering, knowing that the 
wise and prudent might not knov/ what was re- 
vealed unto babes. But no man ever knew why for 
the rest of his days (for he died as a porter) Cerda 
slept only in his chair, and never lay down upon 
his bed ; or why, before he closed the httle gate, he 
always knelt for a moment to pray where the feet 
of the child had stood upon the brink of the moat. 



LINUS 

In the old days there was a rich city of Asia, Cibyra 
by name, a prosperous place of wealthy merchants, 
full of large stone houses, with towers to catch the 
breeze, cloisters full of shadow and coolness, looking 
upon garden-closes set with little branching trees, 
very musical v/ith clear fountains. The land was 
not yet wholly Christian, but persecution had long 
ceased, and those in high places called themselves 
by the Saviour's name ; but still there were many 
who were heathen in all but name, and did not 
follow the Way, but spoke or thought of the faith 
as a heavy burden bound on the backs of men. 
And there was much wickedness in such cities as 
Cibyra, men and women following the desires of 
their hearts, and only when sick or tired, or some- 
times ashamed, looking fearfully to judgm.ent. 

In Cibyra lived a young man called Linus ; he 
was an orphan ; his father had been a Greek mer- 
chant, struck down in youth by a mysterious 
disease, already a djdng man when his little son 
was born ; he had named him Linus, thinking in his 
heart of an old sad song, sung by reapers, about a 
young shepherd who had to suffer death, and had 
been unwilling to leave the beautiful free life, the 
woods and hills that he loved. And his mother had 
approved the name, partly to please the dying 

man, and partly because the name had been borne 

428 



LINUS 429 

by holy men ; soon afterwards she, too, had died, 
leaving her son to the care of her brother, a strict 
and stern Christian, but with a loving heart ; so 
that Linus had been brought up in simple and 
faithful ways ; and the only thing that had given 
anxious thoughts to his uncle was that the child's 
great inheritance had become yearly greater, many 
streets and houses having been built on the land 
which belonged to him. But the boy was simple 
and pure, very docile and dutiful, apt to learn, 
loving beauty in all things, fond of manly exercise, 
hating riot and evil talk, generous and noble in 
body and mind. 

Now just when Linus came of age, his uncle had 
fallen sick and found himself near his end ; he had 
accustomed Linus to the knowledge of his riches, 
and had made him understand that his wealth was 
not only for show and pleasure, but was to be used 
generously and wisely, to help the humble and 
poor ; and this in his last days was much in his 
thoughts and often on his lips — though he concealed 
his coming death from Linus, until at last the boy 
was roused at night to take leave of his uncle, who 
had been both father and mother to him ; and 
the dying man's last words had been a prayer for 
the boy that he might be pure and loving ; and 
then he had sighed and turning to Linus he took 
his hand and kissed it, and said, " Remember " ; 
and then with another sigh had died, quietly as he 
had lived ; and the boy had known what he meant 
him to keep in mind, and that it was a charge to 
him to be careful and generous. 

So Linus was left to himself ; he was master of a 



430 LINUS 

great house and many servants, and with the 
revenues of a prince ; and when his grief was a 
little abated, and memory was more sweet than 
sad, he made many plans how to use his wealth ; 
but it is not easy to spend money wisely, and as 
yet, though he gave a large sum to the deacons for 
the poorer brethren, he had not been able to decide 
how to bestow his wealth best, and still his inherit- 
ance increased. 

Meanwhile his life began to be very full of happi- 
ness and pleasure ; he loved friendship and merry 
talk, and music and the sight of beautiful things, 
rich houses and fair men and women ; and he had 
too, besides his wealth and his beauty, much of the 
fine and fragrant thing that the Greeks called 
charm ; it was a pleasure to see him move and 
speak ; in his presence life became a more honour- 
able and delightful thing, full of far-off echoes and 
old dreams, and the charm was the greater because 
Linus did not know it himself ; all men were kindly 
and gracious to him, where\er he went, and so he 
thought that it was the same for all others ; he 
was modest, and he had been brought up not to 
turn his thoughts upon himself, but to give others 
their due, and to show courtesy and respect to all 
persons, high or low, so that the world was very 
tender to him ; and in the long summer days, with 
a little business, to make, as it were, a solid core 
to life, with banquets, and hunting, and military 
exercises, and the company of the young, the days 
sped very quickly away, divided one from another 
by dreamless sleep. And his friends became more 
and more numerous, and the plans which he had 



LINUS 431 

made to use his wealth were put aside for a while. 
Sometimes he heard a word spoken or saw glances 
exchanged which somehow cast a little shadow 
across his mind ; but still, men and women, know- 
ing his bringing-up, and awed perhaps by his in- 
stinctive purity, put their best side forward for 
Linus. So that he remained innocent, and thought 
others so. And when sometimes an old friend of 
his uncle's said a grave word to him, or warned him 
against some of those with whom he spent his days, 
Linus said lightly that he judged no one, and indeed 
that he had seen nothing to judge. 

One evening he found himself at a banquet at the 
house of a rich man whom for some reason he did not 
wholly trust. He had hesitated to go, but had put 
the thought aside, saying to himself that he must 
not be suspicious. The company had assembled, 
all being men, and were listening from an open 
gallery to a concert of lutes and viols, the players 
being skilfully concealed among the trees of the 
garden. It was twilight, and the blue sky, with a 
few bright stars, died into a line of pure green, the 
sharp tops of the cypresses showing very black 
against it, and the towers of a neighbouring house 
looking gravely over. 

Somehow Linus did not wholly like the music ; 
it seemed to him as though some bright and yet 
dangerous beast was walking in the dark alleys of 
the garden, his eyes sparkling ; the music, after a 
low descant, rose in a delicious wail of sorrow and 
sank again, and Linus felt something wild and 
passionate stir in his heart and rise in yearning for 
he knew not what. He looked round at the guests 



432 LINUS 

who sat or stood in little groups, and he felt again 
that he had not been wise to come. There were 
several persons there who w^ere not well spoken 
of, luxurious and effeminate men, whom Linus 
knew only by repute ; but at that mom.ent his 
host came up and spoke so gently and courteously 
to Linus, asking him whether he was pleased with 
the unseen music, that Linus grew ashamed of his 
secret thoughts. 

Presently the banquet was ready, and the guests 
went in little groups into a large vaulted hall, kept 
deliciously cool by a fountain, that poured into a 
marble trough like an altar at the end, with a white 
statue above it of a boy looking earnestly at the 
water. At the other end the great doors were open 
to the garden, and the breeze, heavily laden with 
the scent of flowers, came wandering in and stirred 
the flames of the lamps which stood on high stone 
brackets along the walls. Each side of the room 
was supported by an arcade of stone built out upon 
the wall. 

Linus lingered behind a little, looking out into 
the garden, where he heard the soft talk and laughter 
of the musicians v/ho were dispersing, and in a 
moment found himself the last to go in, except for 
a tall thin man, whom Linus knew only by sight 
and name, and who had the reputation of eccen- 
tricity in the town ; he was a secret, silent man, 
tall and lean, with bright dark eyes. He was seen 
everywhere, but lived alone in a melancholy tower, 
where he was said to study much and observe the 
courses of the stars, and it was hinted by some 
people that he was versed in magical books, though 



LINUS 433 

he passed for a Christian. He spoke but little in 
company, and watched others quietly and gravely, 
with something of a smile, as one might watch a 
child at play. But as he belonged to an ancient 
family, and had a certain fame, he was a welcome 
guest at many houses. 

This man, whose name was Dion, came up to 
Linus, and with a courteous gesture asked if he 
might have the honour to place himself next to him 
— " We have many friends in common," he added ; 
and Linus, who loved to make a new friend, assented ; 
and so they went in together, and took their places 
side by side about the middle of the great table ; 
on the other side of Linus sat a man, with an uneasy 
smile, whom he did not know, to whom Linus bowed ; 
at first the conversation was low and fitful ; the 
table was abundantly furnished, and the servants 
were deft and assiduous ; Linus was soon satisfied 
with meat and drink, which were circulated almost 
too plentifully ; so that he contented himself with 
refusing the constant proffer of food, kept his full 
cup untasted, and found pleasure in the talk of 
Dion, who told him some curious legends. 

Soon the talk became louder and more insistent, 
and frequent laughter broke out in all directions, 
but Linus felt more and more in a kind of pleasant 
solitude with his new friend. After a pause in the 
talk, in which their thoughts seemed to grapple 
together, Linus took courage, and said that he was 
surprised to meet Dion in this company. " Yes," 
said Dion, with a slight smile, " and I confess that 
I was even m.ore surprised to meet you here ; and, 
moreover, I saw when you came in that you were 

2E 



434 LINUS 

surprised to be here yourself. You thought that 
you had travelled a long way from where you 
began." 

At those words, which seemed as though his 
inmost thoughts had been read, and still more at 
the glance which accompanied them, Linus felt a 
strange sensation, almost of fear ; and in the silence 
that followed he heard higher up the table the end 
of a tale told that seemed to him to be both evil 
and shameful, and the laugh that followed it brought 
a blush from his heart to his cheek. " Yes," said 
Dion, gravely, as though answering a question, 
" you are right to hate that story, and you feel, 
I do not doubt, as if it would be well for you to 
rise and fly such contact. But it would not be 
well ; we must be in the world, but not of it ; and 
if a man can but be sure of keeping his heart clear 
and bright, he does better to mix with the world ; 
we need not forget that the Master Himself was 
accused of loving the company of publicans and 
sinners more than that of the scrupulous Pharisees." 
These words gave Linus a kind of courage and 
filled him with wonder, and he looked up at Dion, 
who was regarding him with dark eyes. 

"Yes," went on Dion, " the only thing is that a 
man should not be deceived by these shows, but 
should be able to look through and behind them. 
This room seems bright and solid enough to us ; 
the laughter is loud ; it is all very real and true to 
us ; but I think that you have the power to see 
further ; look in my eyes for a moment and tell me 
what you see." 

Linus looked at Dion's eyes, and all at once he 



LINUS 435 

seemed to stand in a lonely and misty place ; it 
seemed like a hill swept with clouds ; it was but 
for a moment, and then the bright room and the 
table came back ; but it swam before his eyes. 

" This is very strange," said Linus. " I do not 
think that I ever felt this before." 

Then Dion said, " Look at the wall there opposite 
to us, between the arches, and tell me what you 
see." 

The v/all between the arches was a plain wall of 
stone that gave, Linus knew, upon the street ; he 
looked for a moment at the wall and the joints of 
the masonry. "I see nothing," he said, " but the 
wall and the jointed stones." 

" Look again," said Dion. 

Linus looked again, and suddenly the wall became 
blurred, as though a smoke passed over it ; then 
the stones seemed to him to melt into a kind of 
mist, which moved this v/ay and that ; all at once 
the mists drew up, rolling off in ragged fringes, and 
showed him a dark room within, plainly furnished 
with tall presses ; in the centre of the room was a 
table at which a man sat writing in a book, a large 
volume, writing busily, his hand moving swiftly and 
noiselessly over the paper. At the far end of the 
room was an archway which seemed to lead into a 
corridor ; but the man never raised his head. He 
was an old man with grey hair, clad in a cloudy 
kind of gown ; his face seemed stern and sad ; over 
his head played a curious radiance, as though from 
some unseen source, which brightened into two 
clear centres or points of light over his brows. 

While he still wrote, some one whom Linus could 



436 LINUS 

not see very distinctly came quietly into the room 
through the archway, carrying in his arms another 
volume like the one in which the man was writing ; 
the writer never raised his head, but Linus saw 
that he was finishing the last page of the book ; as 
he finished he pushed it aside with something of 
impatience in his gesture ; the other laid the new 
volume before him, and the man began at once to 
write, as though eager to make up for the moment's 
interruption ; the other took up the finished book, 
clasped it, and went silently out. 

" This is a very strange thing," said Linus falter- 
ing. " Who would have supposed there was a 
room in there ? I had thought it gave upon the 
street." 

" There are hidden rooms everywhere," said 
Dion ; " but I see that you are not satisfied ; you 
may go in and look closer ; you cannot interrupt 
him who writes ; he has no eyes but for his task — 
and no one here will notice you." 

Linus looked round ; it seemed to him indeed as 
though by some strange attraction the party had 
been drawn into two groups right and left of him, 
and that he and Dion were left alone ; the merri- 
ment was louder and wilder, and frequent peals of 
laughter indicated to him the telling of some tale — 
wicked it seemed to him from the glistening eyes 
and disordered looks of some of the guests ; but 
the laughter seemed to come to him far off as 
through a veil of water. So he rose from his place 
and went into the room. 

It was very plain and severe ; the presses round 
the room seemed to contain volumes like that in 



-LINUS 437 

which the man was writing. It was lit with a low 
radiance of its own, very pure and white. He 
looked into the door that led into the corridor ; it 
seemed to be brighter in there. He stood waiting, 
undecided. He looked first at the man who wrote ; 
his hand moved with great rapidity, and his face 
seemed furrowed and grave ; and Linus felt a fear 
of him, which was increased b}' the curious light 
which seemed to well in fountains from his brow, 
lighting the grey hair, the book, and the strong 
white hands. He looked back and could see the 
room he had left. The talk fell on his ear with a 
dreadful clearness, and the laughter sounded not 
cheerful, but intolerably hateful and evil ; he could 
see Dion, and in his own place there sat some one 
half turned away from him, whom he did not recog- 
nise, though the form seemed somehow familiar. 

While he waited, doubtful as to what he should 
do, he heard a movement close beside him ; and 
turning saw the messenger who had brought the 
book, a tall serene-looking man, young of feature, 
but with a look of age and wisdom about his face. 
He seemed in some way familiar to him, and this 
was increased by the half-smiling look which met 
his own. Then the messenger said in a low distinct 
tone, but as though sparing of his words, as a man 
will talk in the presence of one who is at work, and 
as though answering a question, " Yes, you may 
look — the book is open to all." And as he said the 
words he made a little gesture with his hand as 
though to indicate that he might draw nearer. 
Linus at once without hesitation went and stood 
beside the writer and looked upon the book. 



438 LINUS 

For a moment he did»not understand, itjseemed 
a record of some talk or other. Then in a moment 
he saw words which made his cheeks burn, and in 
another moment it flashed upon him that this was 
a record of all that was said in the room he had 
left. The strangeness of the thought scarcely 
crossed his mind, for he was lost in a kind of terror, 
a horror of the thought that what was said so 
lightly and thoughtlessly should be so strictly pre- 
served ; he stood for a moment, his eyes fastened 
on the paper on which the sad syllables shaped 
themselves, and with his terror there mixed a kind 
of wild pity for the unhappy people who were talk- 
ing thus, thinking that each word died as it fell 
from their lips, and little knew that the record was 
thus intently made. 

He looked up, and at the other side of the writer 
stood the young man who had bidden him take his 
place, who made a gesture, laying his finger on his 
lips as if for silence, while there rang through the 
hall without the wild laughter which greeted the 
end of the story — then he motioned him away. iVs 
they went softly away together a few paces, Linus 
looked at him as though to make sure that what 
he had seen was true ; the other gave a mournful 
motion of the head, saying softly, " Yes ! every 
word ; " and added, as if to himself, " every idle 
word." 

Linus stood for a moment as if irresolute ; he had 
an intense longing to go back to the room he had 
left and tell the guests what he had seen, to silence 
by any means in his power the talk, and yet half 
aware that he would not be believed, when the 



LINUS 439 

other led him quickly across the room, and pointed 
to the door that led to the corridor, laying his hand 
lightly on his arm. Not knowing what he did, and 
still lost in his miserable doubt, Linus obeyed the 
gentle touch. They passed through the door and 
entered a long silent vaulted corridor, with plain 
round arches ; on one side there were presses which 
Linus knew in himself were full of similar records ; 
on the right were doors, but all closed. They went 
on to the end ; it was all lit with a solemn holy 
light, the source of which Linus could not see, and 
the place seemed to grow brighter as they advanced, 
brighter and cooler — for the air of the room they 
had left was hot and still. 

They went through a door, and Linus found him- 
self in a long large room, with arches open to the 
daylight. He looked through one of those, and 
saw a landscape unfamiliar to him and strangely 
beautiful. It was a great open flat country, full 
of lawns and thickets and winding streams. It 
seemed to be uninhabited, and had a quiet peace 
like a land in which the foot of man had never 
trodden ; far away over the plain he saw a range 
of blue hills, very beautiful and still, like the hills 
a man may see in dreams. There were buildings 
there, for he saw towers and walls, the whole lit 
with a clear and pearly light, but it was all too 
distant for him to distinguish anything, and indeed 
would have been hardly visible but for the sur- 
passing brightness of the air ; the breeze that came 
in was fresh and fragrant, like the breeze of dawn ; 
and far away to the left he saw what looked like 
the glint of light on a sea or some wide water, where 



440 ^LINUS 

the day seemed to be breaking, and coming up 
with a tranquil joy. 

Linus' heart was so Hghtened at this sweet place 
that ;he only dimly wondered what this strange 
country was that lay so near the city where he 
dwelt and yet in which he had never set foot. 
While he stood there he heard a faint noise of 
wings, and a bird such as he had never seen appeared 
flying ; but beating its wings and stretching out its 
feet like a bird coming home, it alighted for a mo- 
ment on the parapet, and seemed to Linus' eye like 
a dove, with sparkling lights upon its head and 
neck, and with a patient eye ; but this was only for 
a moment ; as if it had finished its work, it rose 
again in the air, and in an instant was out of sight ; 
but the next moment, another bird appeared ; this 
was a black bird, strong and even clumsy, but it 
alighted in the same way on the balustrade, a little 
further off, and Linus could see its sparkling eye 
and strong claws. Then came a little bird like a 
wren, which went as noiselessly as it came ; then 
several birds all at once. Linus was so much sur- 
prised at the sight of these birds that he had no 
eyes for anything else, till his guide touched him 
on the arm, and he looked up and saw that the 
room was not unoccupied. 

There was a large table of some dark wood in 
the centre, and by it stood a man who seemed to 
be reading in a book which lay open on the table, 
following the lines with his finger ; and Linus 
thought, though he could not see the face, that 
as he read he wept. And at the same time he 
knew that this was the master of the house, though 



t LINUS 441 

how he knew it he could hardly explain, except 
for the awed and reverent look in the face of his 
guide ; in the presence of the former writer, whom 
they had just left, his guide had borne himself, 
he now reflected, as the son of a house might bear 
himself in the presence of an old and trusted ser- 
vant, who was valued more for his honesty than for 
his courtesy. 

But here all was different, and Linus too felt a 
silent awe stealing into his mind, he knew not why, 
at the sight of the still and gracious figure. 

The messenger made a movement with his hand 
as though Linus were to go forward, so he stepped 
towards the table ; and then he waited, but the 
man drew a litle aside and put the book towards 
Linus, as though he were to look at it. Linus 
looked, and saw that it was one of the former books 
of records ; and something of the same wistful 
sadness came over him at the thought of all the 
evil words and deeds that were here noted. But 
now there came a great and wonderful surprise ; 
for, as the man ran his fingers along the lines, they 
became faint and blurred, and presently the page 
seemed clean, just as the water dies out of a cloth 
which is put before a hot fire ; it seemed to Linus 
as though the writing vanished most speedily when 
one of the birds lit on the railing ; and presently 
he was sure of this, for each time that a bird came 
on the ledge the man raised his head a little and 
seemed to consider — and all the while the dawn 
brightened over the sea. 

Then Linus saw that the hand which moved 
over the page, a beautiful yet strong hand, was 



442 LINUS 

strangely scarred ; and at this he caught his breath, 
for a thought too deep for utterance came into 
his heart ; and then, as though the unasked question 
was answered, came a clear low voice which said, 
" These are the wounds with which I was wounded 
in the house of my friends." 

And then, unbidden, but because he could not 
do otherwise, Linus knelt softly down ; and the 
man, tenderly and gently, as a father might tell 
a child a secret by slow degrees, fearful that it might 
be too hard for the tender spirit, turned and looked 
at him, and Linus felt the eyes sink as it were into 
his soul, and it seemed to him at that moment that 
he had said without the need of speech all that 
had ever been in his heart ; he felt himself in 
one instant understood and cared for, utterly and 
perfectly, so that he should have no need ever to 
fear or doubt again ; and Linus said softly the 
only words that came into his mind, the words of 
one who had doubted and was strengthened, " My 
Lord and my God." 

So he knelt for a moment, and then knew that 
he was to rise and go, and it seemed to him that 
the other looked back upon the book with somewhat 
of a sigh, as one who was content to work, but had 
waited long. 

So Linus went back down the corridor and through 
the little room, where the man still sat writing, 
and stepped into the hall again'. 

The hall seemed very dark and fiery after the 
radiance of that other morning ; the guests were 
as Linus had left them ; Dion sat in his place ; 
and just as Linus came to his ovm chair, it seemed 



LINUS 443 

to him that some one sHpped quietly away ; and 
Dion looked at him with a vety tender and inquir- 
ing gaze. " Yes," said Linus, " I have seen." 
" And you understand ? " said Dion. " Yes," said 
Linus, " in part — I understand enough." 

When Linus looked round the hall again, he 
was surprised to find that what had distressed 
and almost terrified him before, the uproar, the 
evil mirth, the light-hearted wickedness moved him 
now more with a tender and w^ondering sorrow ; and 
he asked Dion how it was. " Because," said Dion, 
" you have seen the end ; and you know that 
though the way is dark and long, we shall arrive." 
" Yes," he went on, " we shall arrive ; there is 
no doubting that ; the Father's heart is wide, and 
He will bring His sons even from afar." 



ENVOI 

Let those whose Hearts and Hands are strong 
Tell eager Tales of mighty Deeds ; 

Enough if my sequestered Song 

To hushed and twilight Gardens leads ! 

Clear Waters, drawn from secret Wells, 
Perchance may fevered Lips assuage ; 

The Tales an elder Pilgrim tells 
To such as go on Pilgrimage. 

I wander by the Waterside, 

In that cool Hour my Soul loves best, 
When trembles o'er the rippling Tide 

A golden Stairway to the West. 

Such the soft Path my Words would trace, 
Thus with the moving Waters move ; 

So weave, across the Ocean^s Face, 

A glimmering Stair to Hope and Love.j 



Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson &= Co- 
Edinburgh S^ London 



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